The Distant Crown
The banquet hall was silent. Not the silence of peace. The silence of held breath. Margaret stood by the window. The glass was cold against her shoulder. Outside, the rain fell in sheets. It washed the cobblestones clean. Inside, the chandelier dripped light. It was a pale, sickly yellow. It stained the white tablecloths. She looked at the man across the room. Elias Thorne. He sat at the head...
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