The Faded Frontier
The hammer strikes. One. Two. Three. The stone does not crack. It drinks the impact, a dull thud that travels up your arm and settles in the marrow of your shoulder. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have been striking the gate of Aethelgard for six hours. The mist outside is thick enough to taste, a cold, wet wool that presses against the slits in the keep’s walls. You need...
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