The Distant Crown
The border fence hums. A low, electric thrum. You feel it in your teeth. It is the sound of division. You are standing on the north side. The grass is dead. Brown and brittle. It crunches under your boots. You are a border agent. Your name is on your badge. But right now, you are just a man in a gray coat. The wind bites. It cuts through the wool. It finds the gaps in your armor. You watch the...
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