The Faded Masquerade
The summons came not as a knock, but as a vibration in the floorboards, a low, grinding thrum that Elias Thorne felt in his teeth before he heard the voice calling his name through the heavy oak door of his study. He was still half-lost in the recurring dream, where Clara’s face was obscured by a mask that bled not blood, but thick, black ink, the liquid pooling in the hollows of her cheeks...
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