The Faded Shield
The seal is cold in your hand, colder than the stone floor of your cell. You are Elara, thirty-two, a scribe in the city of Oria, and you are alone with the weight of your brother’s impending execution. The Duke’s shadow is not a metaphor here; it is the iron gate that has not opened in three days. You want to forge a royal pardon. It is a desperate, illegal thing, but the law in Oria is a web...
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