The Distant Crown
The rain does not fall on the roof of the Whitmore estate; it gathers there, thick and heavy, as if the sky itself has decided to rest its weight upon your shoulders. You are standing in the workshop, the air cold and sharp with the scent of wet iron and old varnish. Your hands are stained black to the wrist, the ink of a decade’s labor soaked into the creases of your skin. You are a...
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