The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-20 14:33:21 -

The ink was black. It was the only thing that remained true. I stood before the wall. The paint was peeling in long, dry strips. It looked like dead skin. I held the vial in my hand. It was warm. My hand was shaking. I looked at the mark. It was a symbol. It was a sigil of the old guard. I had carried it for twenty years. It was etched into my mind. It was deeper than bone. The room was cold....

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