The Faded Portrait
The ink bled into the parchment, not as a stain, but as a wound. I held the scroll tightly against my chest, the vellum rough and cold against my fur. It was a map, or perhaps a curse, but the Council of Elders called it a record of treason. My name, Silas, was not written there, but the symbol above it—the broken ring, the shattered star—was mine. It was the mark of the Outcast, the one who...
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