The Pale Banner
The parchment lay on the table, brittle as dried skin, its edges frayed and stained with the rust-colored residue of old iron. I, Elias, a scribe of forty years whose ink-stained fingers had copied the laws of three kings, held the decree of the city council in my trembling hands, the document that ordered the restoration of the Pale Banner before the next moonrise or the gates would be opened...
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