The Faded Masquerade
The mortar is cracked, a hairline fracture running through the ceramic like a vein of dry earth, and you are pressing the pestle down with a force that should shatter the glass beneath it, but the moonpetal resists, stubborn and dry, refusing to yield its blue dust. "Is it done, Master Thorne?" The voice comes from the doorway, cold and clipped, belonging to a guard whose breath fogs in the...
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