The Distant Crown
You hold the key. It is iron. Cold. Heavy. It hangs from your neck on a leather cord. The cord is frayed. The metal bites into your skin. You are in the house. The house is old. The stone is damp. The air smells of rot and woodsmoke. You are the exile. You are the thief. You are the son of the house who was cast out. Now you return. Not for love. For survival. The hunger is a beast. It eats...
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