The Faded Portrait
The mist off the cliffs was thick enough to chew on, and Angus Sempill could taste the salt of it on his cracked lips. "Are you certain, Master Sempill? The spirit does not take the willing, only the guilty." Angus looked down at his apprentice, young Callum, whose hands were wrapped in rags that had long since turned the color of dried blood. They stood at the edge of the lowlands, where the...
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