The Pale Mist
The iron crown sat heavy. Not on my head. On my hand. It was a ring. A plain band of blackened steel. Cold. I looked at it. I looked at the King. He did not look back. He was busy. He was counting his gold. "Speak," he said. His voice was dry. Like old leaves. I opened my mouth. No sound came. I looked at the floor. The tiles were white. They were stained with blood. Old blood. Black. I looked...
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