The Distant Crown
The mist did not rise from the valley floor; it descended, heavy and gray, like a burial shroud draped over the stones of Aethelgard. You stand at the edge of the precipice, your boots caked in the red clay of the lower terraces, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts that taste of iron and dust. In your right hand, you grip the hilt of a sword that feels less like a weapon and more like an...
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