The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-22 07:33:01 -

The rain had stopped, leaving the roads slick with mud and the air thick with the smell of wet wool and iron. I sat my horse, a tired bay named Barnaby, at the edge of the King’s highway where the checkpoint stood. My brother Thomas was to be hanged at dawn for the crime of sedition, a charge I knew to be false, though the court had made no effort to prove otherwise. In my saddlebag lay a...

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