The Distant Whispers
The iron clasp on your breastplate has been broken for three days, but the Order of the Silver Shield does not permit you to repair it. You sit in the cold stone corridor of the Citadel, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and old blood, and you watch the fracture line where the metal split. It is a jagged tear, ugly and final, running through the engraved crest of the house. The clasp is...
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