The Faded Chronicle

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2026-08-23 11:37:53 -

The banquet hall of the Duke’s new wing smelled of roasted pheasant and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone, a scent that Master Elias Thorne had come to associate with the end of things. He stood at the periphery of the feast, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the courtiers laugh over goblets of wine while the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and writhe with a life...

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