The Faded Shield
The ink in Kaelen’s well was black as a bruise, and the parchment before him smelled of damp stone and old blood, a scent that had settled into the very fibers of the Royal Archive in Aethelgard. He was thirty years old, a man whose life had been reduced to the quiet, repetitive labor of copying decrees, but tonight his hands trembled with a purpose that terrified him. He needed to save his...
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