The Faded Portrait
The wind howled through the cracks of the stone keep, a low, mournful moan that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of our bones, and I stood there, my hand trembling as it hovered over the cold, smooth leather of the shield that hung by the door, a shield that had belonged to my father and before him to his father, a lineage of steel and sinew that felt less like a heritage and more like a...
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