The Faded Portrait
The rain did not fall. It hung. I walked the black road. The mud sucked at my boots. Each step was a small death. I pulled my cloak tight. The air tasted of iron and wet stone. We were three. Me. Elara. And the boy, Thomas. Thomas was quiet. He carried the staff. Elara carried the map. I carried the weight. The village was behind us. Burned. The smoke was a gray finger pointing at the sky. The...
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