The Golden Echoes
You hold the shield. It is not a metaphor. It is a slab of oak, bound in iron, resting against your left hip like a second skeleton. The wood is dark and slick with the sweat of three generations of hands. You are a Warden of the Hollow, a title that sounds grand in the old songs but means little to the frost that bites through your wool tunic. The village is dying. Not from plague, nor from...
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