The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-17 14:43:47 -

The air in the Atrium of the Ascendants did not smell of dust or decay, but of ozone and crushed lavender, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a persistent hymn. He stood at the center of the marble floor, his hands raised not in defense, but in the specific, fluid gesture of the Unweaving, his fingers trembling with the exertion of holding back a tide of raw, unformed...

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