The Faded Shield
The mortar had not yet set on the northern archway when the first flakes of snow began to drift down through the open roof, landing on Elias Thorne’s forearms like small, cold coins. He was forty years old, though the granite dust that had caked into the deep lines of his face made him look a decade older, and he moved with the slow, deliberate caution of a man who knew that every step taken in...
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