The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-18 05:25:51 -

The feast was loud. It was a roar of iron against stone, of guttural laughter, of wine sloshing over the rims of clay cups. You sat at the high table, your hands bound not by rope but by the weight of your own silence. The room smelled of roasted goat, pine smoke, and the stale sweat of men who had walked too far for too long. You were the Scribe. You were the Keeper of the Words. And you were...

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