The Pale Banner
The rusted blade of the ceremonial sword lay heavy in Elias Thorne’s hands, its surface a map of orange pits and decay that no amount of polishing could fully erase. He stood alone in the damp stone corridor of the palace, the air thick with the smell of wet limestone and the faint, metallic tang of his own failing heart. For decades, this blade had been the center of his existence, a relic he...
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