The Distant Crown
The dream was not of light, but of iron. In the slumber of Elias Thorne, the air tasted of rust and wet limestone, a metallic tang that coated the back of his throat with a viscosity that felt like swallowing a coin. He stood in a vast, empty hall where the ceiling was lost in a haze of grey fog, and the floor was tiled in a checkerboard of black and white marble that stretched into an infinity...
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