The Faded Masquerade
Thorne. Lord Vane’s voice cut through the dust-choked air of the archive, sharp and final, stopping Elias mid-step as if he had walked into a wall of ice. The old man stood at the head of the table, his silhouette framed by the high, arched windows where the November light fell in pale, slanting shafts, illuminating the swirling motes of decay that hung suspended in the stillness. Elias froze,...
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