The Faded Masquerade
The leather satchel in my hands was heavy, the strap worn thin at the shoulder, the brass buckle green with verdigris. I held it tight against my chest, feeling the square edge of the sealed letter inside, the paper stiff with the cold damp of the valley. I am Elias, thirty-two, a scribe who has walked too long for words that no one wants to read. The mist here in the Hollow does not behave...
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