The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-24 18:44:37 -

The ink was cold, a sludge of oak gall and iron sulfate that cost three coppers an ounce and stained the fingers black for days, and I had counted every drop I used on the final page of my master’s chronicle, measuring the weight of the parchment against the price of the Guild’s seal. I am Elias Thorne, a scribe of forty years, and I stand in the square of Oakhaven on the Feast of St. Jude,...

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