The Distant Crown
The rain has a smell to it today, a metallic tang that clings to the back of your throat, reminding you of the blood you spat into the dust back in the trenches, a memory so sharp it cuts through the fog of your current existence like a blade through wet wool. You stand at the edge of the muddy track that leads up to the old mill, your boots caked in the grey sludge of Harrowgate, a town that...
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