The Distant Crown
He woke with the taste of iron in his mouth. It was not blood, though it felt like it. It was the metallic tang of old age, of joints that had forgotten how to yield. Thomas lay in the narrow bed of the attic room, the one that smelled of damp wool and lavender water. His left hand was still. It had been still for three days, but today it felt heavier. A stone. A block of wet clay. Outside, the...
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