The Faded Masquerade
The knife slipped between the ribs with a wet, final sound that Elias Thorne had heard a thousand times in his twenty years as an inquisitor, yet today the resistance of the blade against the cartilage felt different, heavier, as if the metal itself were protesting the futility of the task. He set the instrument down on the cold oak table, his hands steady, his mind already cataloging the...
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