The Faded Shield
The wind did not howl in the high moors of Caledonia; it whispered, a low, grinding sound like teeth chattering in the dark, and it carried the scent of wet stone and old blood. Eamon stood at the edge of the cliff, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sword that felt heavier than it had the day he drew it from the scabbard. Beside him, Elara shifted her weight, her boots scraping...
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