The Faded Masquerade
The mud of the ancestral estate sucked at Elias Thorne’s boots, a thick, cold paste that smelled of iron and rot. He stood before the Magistrate’s temporary office, a canvas tent pitched on the lawn, and waited for the man to look up from his paperwork. The air was heavy with the scent of wet wool and the distant, metallic tang of the river. Elias did not move; he simply waited, his hands...
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