The Faded Shield
The dream was not a dream but a cellar. It smelled of wet stone and old iron. He stood in the dark. The air was thick. It pressed against his skin. He could not see his hands. He knew they were there. He knew they were clean. The floor was cold. It bit through his boots. He waited. Nothing came. Then a sound. A scratch. Soft. Rhythmic. It came from the corner. He moved toward it. His legs felt...
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