The Faded Portrait
The frost lay thick and brittle on the cobblestones of the old keep, a white silence that seemed to press against the very bones of the world, while inside the stone-walled chamber, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp wool, old parchment, and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the back of Thomas Bradshaw’s throat like a second skin. He was a man who had spent the better part of his...
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