The Distant Crown
The fog does not merely settle upon the valley of Ashworth; it devours it, a slow, grey tide that erases the horizon and turns the ancient stones of the citadel into floating islands of shadow, a place where time has pooled and stagnated like blood in a wound, where the air tastes of iron and forgotten oaths, and you, child, stand at the edge of the abyss not with fear in your heart but with a...
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