The Distant Crown
The rain against the stained glass of the High Hall did not sound like water, but like the slow, inevitable grinding of millstones, a sound that had worn into the very bones of the castle and, by extension, into yours, so that when the door finally creaked open and the draft swept through the chamber, you did not flinch, for you were no longer a man who shivered, but a thing that had been...
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