The Faded Shield
The torchlight in the Great Hall of Ironhold does not illuminate so much as it accuses, casting long, jagged shadows that seem to writhe against the stone pillars like living things. You stand in the center of the feast, a twelve-year-old boy named Caelen, your hands clasped behind your back to hide their trembling, while the air around you tastes of copper and rot. This is the Feast of the...
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