The Faded Shield
The iron shield lay in your hands, cold as a river stone and humming with a static charge that made the hair on your forearms stand on end. You were thirty years old, an inquisitor for the Crown, and you had woken to the smell of charred thatch and burnt wool, the air thick with the acrid bite of a fire that had consumed the village of Oakhaven in a single night. The only thing left standing...
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