The Faded Shield
The hammer does not sing today. It thuds, a dull, wet sound that seems to vibrate in your teeth rather than your ears. You are Elias Thorne, and you are forty-five years old, though the mirror in the corner of the workshop has begun to show a man of sixty, his skin pulled tight over bone, his eyes sunken into hollows of shadow. You are forging the Aegis of Dawn. The metal on the anvil is not...
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