The Faded Portrait
The old man sat in the corner of the high-ceilinged hall, his hands wrapped around a clay cup that had long since gone cold, watching the smoke curl from the brazier like a ghost refusing to leave its house. The air was thick with the scent of wet wool and woodsmoke, a heavy, ancient perfume that seemed to settle into the very stones of the fortress. He was a merchant of sorts, though not of...
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