The Faded Shield
The dust in the Iron Citadel does not settle; it hangs, a suspended judgment that coats your lungs with the taste of iron and forgotten centuries. You are Elias Thorne, a scribe of the third order, and for three years you have copied the mundane ledgers of grain and steel, your hands cramped, your spirit eroding under the weight of a hierarchy that treats men like ink. You want the Faded...
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