The Faded Portrait
The iron gates of the keep did not scream as they opened, for they were too heavy with rust and the weight of centuries to make a sound, but the air that poured out of the stone throat of the fortress was a living thing, cold and tasting of wet ash and old blood, and you stood there in the rain, your boots sinking into the mud that had once been a garden, holding the map that had cost you your...
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