The Faded Masquerade
You will burn it tonight, or I will have your head on a pike by dawn. The Grand Inquisitor’s voice did not echo in the scriptorium; it was swallowed by the damp stone and the heavy, stale air that smelled of mildew and old iron. Elias Thorne did not look up from the desk. His hands, wrapped in bandages that had long since lost their white purity, remained steady as he held the quill. The ink in...
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