The Faded Shield
Act I "You're late, Harold, and the ink is already drying," Mayor Vance said, not looking up from the ledger, his pen scratching a rhythm that felt like a bone being filed down. The chill in the workhouse dining hall came up from the cellar, a physical fact that seeped through the linoleum and into Harold Waggoner’s knees, where he sat with the city’s founding charter spread before him, its...
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