The Faded Masquerade
The chandelier in the regimental hall swung with a heavy, pendulous grace, casting fractured light across the faces of forty men who had come to celebrate the survival of the winter, a survival that Elias Thorne knew was a temporary reprieve rather than a victory. He stood at the head of the table, his hand resting on the brass hilt of his sword, not to draw it, but to steady the tremor that...
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