The Faded Portrait
"Did you hear the stone settle?" The old man’s voice was dry as the dust that coated the windowsill. Yelena Munteanu did not look up from her transcription. The ink in her nib was cold, a sharp blue against the yellowed vellum, and the smell of damp rot was thick in the air of the tower room. She was forty-two, a scholar of dead languages, and she had traveled three days through the greenish...
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