The Faded Portrait
The grey wool cloak hung from the iron hook by the door, its heavy hem dragging slightly on the flagstones, a permanent stain of dampness and shadow that seemed to grow deeper with every passing season, while inside the high vaulted halls of the King’s inner sanctum, the air hung thick with the scent of burning beeswax and the silent, crushing weight of a law that had no name but was obeyed...
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