The Faded Shield
The hammer head hangs heavy in your grip, its iron face darkened by soot and the sweat of your palms, a dead weight that refuses to rise. You stand in the center of the Oakhaven Armory, the year 1342 pressing down on your shoulders like a physical yoke, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and the cloying, sweet rot that has begun to permeate the stone walls. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two,...
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