The Faded Portrait

added blog Literature

2026-08-24 09:41:44 -

My hand trembled as I dipped the quill, the feather trembling against the edge of the inkwell. The black liquid sat thick and cold, a pool of stagnant night in the clay bowl. I was forty years old, a scribe of the royal court in Oren, and the year was 1342. I wanted to finish the chronicle, to secure the pension that would keep my name in the rolls and my belly full. Behind me, on the wall of...

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