The Distant Crown
You wake up with the taste of iron and old pennies on your tongue, a metallic slick that coats the back of your throat and refuses to clear, as if you have been chewing on the very concept of debt for a decade. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of damp wool and the faint, cloying sweetness of rotting lilies that sit in a vase on the nightstand, their petals turning brown at the...
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