The Faded Portrait
The ink was still wet on the final line when the shadow detached itself from the wall, sliding across the cold stone floor to settle at Padraig Mulcahy’s elbow. He did not look up; his hand moved in the steady, rhythmic arc of a man who had spent forty years grinding pigments and scratching names into the silence of Ogham. The feast outside the sealed citadel was in full roar, the sound of...
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