The Faded Portrait
The ink was not merely black but a living, breathing darkness that seeped into the porous skin of the parchment, spreading like a slow, silent plague that consumed the light from the chamber and bound the hand of the scribe to the fate of the words he dared not speak. I stood before the great oak table in the center of the Hall of Whispers, a structure of stone and shadow that had watched the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews