The Faded Shield
The rain in the capital city of Aethelgard did not wash the streets clean; it merely slicked the cobblestones with a layer of grime that shimmered like oil on water, reflecting the muddy light of the lanterns that swung lazily from the iron hooks above. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, for time had become a fluid, unreliable thing in the shadow of the Great Palace, and Cillian Vane, a...
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