The Faded Masquerade
The fog rolled in off the river, thick and gray, swallowing the iron gates of the Bureau. You stood at the perimeter, your hand resting on the cold hilt of your sword, watching the mist creep over the cobblestones. It was not merely weather. It was the Veil, the industrial breath of the city that distorted memory and made lies feel like stone. You had come for Silas. You had come to give him...
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