The Faded Shield
The brass clasp bites into your sternum as you lift the gate arm, the metal cold and heavy against your chest. Your fingers, stiff with the early frost, fumble with the latch. The wood groans, a low, wet sound like a throat clearing. You hold the door open. The wind rushes in, carrying the smell of damp earth and something sweeter, rotting. You are Elias Thorne. You are thirty-two. You are the...
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