The Faded Masquerade
The ledger showed three hundred and twelve guests, but Elias counted four hundred and five faces in the mirrors. He was an archivist, a man of dust and dry ink, and he had spent forty years cataloging the dead. Tonight, at the King’s masquerade, he was cataloging the living. The air was thick, not with perfume, but with the cloying, sweet rot of lilies that had been crushed under too many feet....
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