The Faded Shield
The ink was wet. It glistened on the parchment like a fresh wound. I watched it bleed into the fibers. My hand trembled. The quill clicked against the stone desk. Outside, the rain hammered the leaded glass. It was a steady, rhythmic drumming. A lullaby for the dead. Or a wake-up call for the living. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a scribe. I am a scholar of the old tongue. I live in Oakhaven....
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