The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-18 07:14:54 -

The feast was a wound that would not close. Meat hung from the rafters, dripping fat onto the stone floor. The air was thick with smoke and the sour smell of old ale. I sat at the high table, my hands bound with rope. The rope was rough. It bit into my wrists. I did not move. I could not move. My brother, Thomas, sat across from me. He held a goblet of red wine. He looked at me. His eyes were...

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