The Faded Masquerade
The needle was already in the Duke’s forearm when I heard it. It was not a sound the ear should have caught, a rhythm beneath the skin, a throb that did not match the frantic, fluttering beat of his own failing heart. I pulled back, my fingers slick with the cold sweat of his fever, and listened. The air in the chamber was thick with the smell of camphor and old stone, but beneath that, a low,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews