The Faded Shield
The obsidian floor of the throne room was cold enough to burn, a damp chill that seeped up through the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots and settled in the marrow of his knees. He stood before the Faded Shield, his hands trembling as he reached for the rim, the leather grip slick with a sweat that had nothing to do with heat. For three days, the artifact had hummed, a low, sickly vibration that...
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