The Faded Shield
The rain fell hard. It beat against the slate roof of the cottage. It drummed on the shutters. It hissed on the stone path. Inside, the air was thick. It smelled of damp wool and old paper. Silas stood by the window. He watched the water run. He did not move. His hands were still. They rested on the table. They were rough hands. They were scarred hands. They were the hands of a maker. The door...
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