The Faded Shield
The rain against the windshield of the armored transport is a relentless, rhythmic drumming that feels less like weather and more like the world trying to erode the glass, a steady, grey persistence that matches the dull ache in your ribs and the heavy, metallic taste of copper and old blood sitting at the back of your throat, a taste that has become so familiar to you in the last three days of...
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