The Faded Portrait
The map was wrong. That was the first thing Julian knew, a cold fact settling in his gut like a stone in a well. He held the crumpled parchment against the wind, the ink bleeding into the fibers where his sweat had touched it. Beside him, Thomas stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the treeline with the bored patience of a man waiting for a bus that would never come. "We turn back,"...
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