The Faded Shield
The first thing Elias Thorne did upon waking was count the seconds of his own pulse, a ritual born not of piety but of the terrible, creeping suspicion that the rhythm had changed. He lay in the dark of his workshop, the air thick with the scent of brass filings and old oil, and listened to the silence that had no right to be so loud. In his dream, which had visited him with the persistence of...
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