The Pale Banner
The morning mist clung to the stone walls of the Keep of St. Jude, a grey shroud that swallowed the sound of boots on the cobblestones. Elias Thorne stood at the foot of the central staircase, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword, the leather worn smooth by years of service. He was a man of few words, his face a map of quiet endurance, etched with the kind of fatigue that sleep could...
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