The Faded Shield
The rain does not fall so much as it insists, a persistent, gray static that presses against the high, leaded windows of the manor house, blurring the world outside into a smear of wet slate and dying oak leaves. You stand in the center of the library, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of the storm, holding a glass of amber liquid that you have not sipped in an...
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