The Faded Shield
The long table of the Great Hall groaned under the weight of silver and roasted boar, the air thick with the scent of rosemary and the damp wool of three hundred courtiers, yet Elara stood apart, her fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a shield made of polished oak that seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic heat against her palm. She was thirty years old, a woman who had spent the last...
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