The Faded Shield
The iron gate was cold. You knew the cold. It bit into your palm, seeping through the leather of your gauntlet, a familiar, biting truth. You stood before the manor of Blackthorn, the wind whipping your cloak, the fabric heavy with the scent of wet stone and old blood. Inside, the candles flickered. Inside, your father sat. He was not what you expected. He was not a king, nor a monster, but a...
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