The Distant Crown
The ink was black. It smelled of iron. I mixed it in the copper bowl, stirring the sludge until it turned to glass. My hands were red. The cold bit into the knuckles. The workshop was dark. Only the furnace glowed. A low hum filled the air. It vibrated in my teeth. I am a scholar. I study the old codes. I believe in the word. The word is the only truth. My brother was gone. He had left for the...
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