The Faded Shield
The iron gate of the Abbey of Saint Jude does not rust, a fact that troubles you more than the cold which settles into your marrow each morning when you rise from the straw to tend the sick, for the metal remains a dull, unyielding grey while the world around it rots and decays with the relentless, indifferent patience of winter. You are a knight, or you were, before the coins ran out and the...
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