The Faded Shield
The brass caliper lay in Elias Thorne’s left hand, its jaws open two millimeters, a precise measure of the distance between the rusted edge of the shield and the cold stone of the vault floor. He held it there, his fingers trembling with a rhythmic, involuntary spasm that made the metal teeth click against one another, a sound like dry bones grinding in a quiet room. Blackwood Hall, a modernist...
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