The Faded Portrait
The glass is cold in your hands. It is a small thing, a shard of blue, jagged and sharp. You hold it against your palm. The pain is a bright, clean line. It keeps you here. It keeps you from the noise of the hall. You are twelve years old. Your name is Elara. You do not speak much. You are the younger sister of the King’s heir, Julian. He is tall. He is golden. The court loves him. They love...
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