The Faded Shield
The dampness in the air of the Whitmore Textile Mill did not merely settle upon the skin; it seeped into the marrow, a cold, iron-scented fog that hung heavy over the looms and the men who tended them, and I, Elias Thorne, woke from a dreamless sleep with a headache that split my skull like a struck bell, my eyes fixed on the face of Arthur, my oldest friend, who sat slumped on the wooden bench...
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