The Faded Portrait
The King’s voice, when it finally cut through the din of the court, was not loud, but it carried the weight of a hammer striking an anvil, vibrating in the stone floor and up through the soles of Eamon’s boots. Eamon, forty years old and leaning heavily on a cane that had cost him three months’ wages to repair, stood in the center of the throne room, his lungs burning with the familiar, dry...
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