The Faded Portrait
The silence in the house is not empty; it is heavy, a physical weight that presses against your eardrums and settles in the marrow of your bones. You stand in the center of the grand hall of Blackwood Manor, the air thick with the scent of decaying lilies and the metallic tang of old blood, though you know, with the cold certainty of your profession, that no blade has been drawn here in...
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