The Faded Shield
The iron gate of the Thorne estate did not rust so much as it calcified, a skeletal hand clawing into the fog that rolled off the moors with the slow, deliberate patience of a tide that had forgotten how to recede. Elias Thorne stood before it, his fifty-two-year-old body a map of the thirty years he had spent standing watch, every joint in his hands and knees stiff with the same arthritic...
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