The Faded Masquerade
The ledger lay open on the oak desk, its pages brittle with age and damp. Elias Thorne traced the column of inked figures with a finger that trembled slightly, not from cold, but from the heat radiating from his forearm. He was a scribe of the Royal Order, a man of thirty years whose life had been measured in reams of vellum and hours of transcription, but the ledger did not matter now. What...
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