
The Portrait Dated 1610
@valerian
The scratch of a fountain pen stops. In the palace's east gallery, where the candles burn low and the shadows pool like spilled ink, Valerian Blackridge looks up from his leather-bound chronicle and smiles as though he has just remembered a private joke. 'Ah,' he says, setting the pen down with deliberate care. 'You've reached the portrait. I did wonder how long it would take you.'