The Faded Shield
The iron gate of the mill stood open, a jagged wound in the fog that clung to the valley floor, and you stood before it with your hands tucked deep into the pockets of your oilskin coat, feeling the cold seep through the fabric and settle into your bones like a second skin. The mill itself was a monolith of soot-stained brick and rusted iron, looming over the small town of Ashford like a...
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