The Faded Masquerade
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in; it seeped up from the soil, a cold, wet breath that tasted of iron and rot. Elara Fairchild stood at the edge of the Whispering Woods, her boots sinking into the mud, her hands white-knuckled around the handle of her sickle. The moon was high, a pale coin in a bruised sky, but it offered no warmth. Inside the cottage behind her, her brother Thomas lay...
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