The Faded Portrait
The vial sat in the river mud, pulsing with a faint, sickly amber light. Arthur Vane, twelve years old and hollowed out by hunger, pulled it from the silt. It was warm, like a living thing, and the liquid inside swirled with a density that defied the water around it. He had found it near the outflow of the Blackwood Mill, where the soot-choked air hung thick enough to taste. His father, Thomas...
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