The Faded Shield
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the moors into a bruised purple swamp that smelled of wet wool and rotting peat. I sat in the corner of the hall, my back against the cold stone, listening to the wind howl against the shutters. My hand rested on the hilt of my sword, not out of readiness, but out of habit. The steel was familiar, cold and heavy, a constant weight against my...
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