The Faded Shield
The vial is cold, heavier than glass should be, vibrating with a low hum that travels up your wrist and settles in the marrow of your forearm. You are Elias, thirty years old, a shield-maker in Aethelgard, and you are holding the only thing that can save your brother from the debt collectors. The Guild of Scribes sits in the high tower, their bureaucracy a wall of parchment and silence,...
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