The Faded Masquerade
The chandeliers in the Oakhaven Hall swung with a slow, pendulous grace, casting long, trembling shadows across the marble floor where the elite of the town moved like ghosts in their own masquerade. Elias Thorne stood at the periphery, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the silk of his gloves slick with sweat. He was forty-two, a magistrate stripped of his bench but not his pride, and...
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