The Faded Shield
The blight does not smell of rot, as you might expect from a sickness of the flesh, but of wet chalk and old iron, a scent that seeps into the lining of your tunic and stays there long after you have stripped. You stand at the edge of the treeline, your boots sinking into the mud of the King’s border, and the shield in your left hand hums against your ribs, a low, sickly vibration that you have...
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