The Distant Crown
The dream began with the taste of iron. It was not the clean bite of a fresh coin, nor the dull, wet tang of old blood. It was the taste of the machinery. The great, grinding gears of the Blackwood Foundry, spinning in the dark behind his eyelids. Thomas Vance woke with a gasp, his body thrumming with a cold that had nothing to do with the damp air of the barracks. He sat up. The straw mattress...
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