The Distant Crown
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the ancient city of Aethelgard into slick, black mirrors reflecting the low, bruised sky above, and in the center of the main square, where the fountain’s water had long since turned to mud, stood Sir Julian Thorne, a man whose armor was dented and rusted from a campaign fought a century prior,...
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