The Faded Masquerade
Thorne. The name was not spoken but felt, a heavy, wet thud against the inside of his ribs, as if the air itself had grown teeth and bitten down. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the grand hall, his uniform pressed to a sharp, brittle sheen, the buttons polished until they reflected the chandelier’s fractured light. He was forty years old, a constable of the county force, and he was here to...
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