The Distant Crown
The fire does not consume the castle; it merely reveals the architecture of the rot within, a slow and sickly unraveling that you witness from the high, cold window of the tapestry room, where the air is thick with the scent of scorched wool and the metallic tang of your own failing nerve. You are not a knight, nor a lord, nor a priest, but a master of the guild of fine work, a man whose hands...
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