The Faded Frontier
The iron is cold against your palm, a dead weight that seems to pull your arm toward the earth. You are standing in the courtyard of the Ashworth manor, the mud sucking at your boots, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and old blood. The crowd is a single, breathing entity around you, their faces a blur of grey and brown, their eyes fixed on the object in your hand. It is a sword, but it...
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