The Faded Portrait
The wind did not howl here; it stripped. It peeled the heat from the air with the efficiency of a bureaucratic clerk removing a seal from a document, leaving only the raw, white void of the high passes. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and warden of the Royal Archives for a decade, clutched the vellum scroll to his chest, the leather binding cracked and cold against his ribs. The sigil of his...
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