The Faded Portrait
The silver cup in Elias Thorne’s hands was heavy, cold, and etched with the profile of an eagle that looked less like a bird and more like a warning, its wings spread in a gesture of absolute, unyielding dominance. He held it up to the light, the crystal chandeliers of the Grand Hall refracting the beams into a thousand tiny, sharp stars that danced across the polished mahogany of the table,...
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