The Faded Portrait
Act I I was scrubbing the soot from the lintel when the dream broke, my hands slick with ash and the cold water of the midsummer rain. The task was halfway done, the wood grain rough under my fingernails, the air heavy with wet wool and old smoke. I had been Einar’s face in the dark, the hollows of his cheeks pressing against my memory like a physical weight, the execution set for dawn and the...
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