The Faded Shield
The stone of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not merely stand; it breathed. Elias Thorne pressed his palm against the damp wall of the archive, feeling the faint, rhythmic pulse that had grown stronger over the last three months, a sensation like a slow heartbeat trapped in the mortar. He was thirty-four years old, an archivist of twenty years, and he was losing his mind, or perhaps his wife, or...
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