The Faded Masquerade
Act I Did the river dream itself, or did Oyalu Orris merely bleed into its black current? He woke with the taste of silt on his tongue, the recurring vision of the unfrozen water cutting through the snow a physical weight in his chest. It was the third day of the sirocco, the wind howling through the eaves of the border town, carrying a grit that settled in the throat and made the lungs ache....
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