The Faded Shield
Aldric, you stand accused of cowardice, and the rain that slicks the cobblestones of the courtyard does nothing to wash the stain from your name, nor from the iron-grey face of Lord Vane who stands before you, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the mud pooling at your boots. The accusation hangs in the damp air, heavier than the wet wool of your cloak, a weight that settles...
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