The Faded Portrait
The city of Aethelgard does not exist on any modern map, yet the dust in your lungs tastes of iron and old stone, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat with every shallow breath. You are a scholar of the lower orders, a man whose hands are stained with the ink of forbidden texts and whose eyes are ruined by the perpetual twilight of the archives, and you are running. The sky above...
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