The Faded Masquerade
I was scrubbing the mud from my boots when the shadow detached from the wall. It did not slide. It did not drift. It peeled away from the stone like wet paper, a long, black smear that stretched toward me with a purpose I could feel in my teeth. I stood in the center of the Blackwood Chapel, my sword drawn, the metal cold and slick in my grip. The air smelled of rot and old wax, a scent that...
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