The Faded Masquerade
The ink was cold, a viscous black sludge that smelled of iron and old blood, and my fingers were trembling as I scraped the last of it from the bone stylus. I was forty-two years old, though the mirror in the cell had begun to show me a man of fifty, the skin around my eyes tight and grey. I was Elias Thorne, formerly the Chief Archivist of the Ironwood Citadel, now a prisoner in the lower...
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