The Faded Shield
Could a man really hold back the tide with a piece of rusted metal? Willis Dobbs asked the question aloud, his voice sounding thin against the roar of the Atlantic wind that battered the base of the lighthouse. He was thirty-four years old, a warder for the Crown, and he held a cracked shield in his hands. It was a thing of beaten brass, green with verdigris, its surface pitted by salt air and...
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