The Distant Crown
The iron crown rests upon the obsidian table, cold and heavy as a coffin lid, its jagged points catching the flickering candlelight in a dance of trapped stars. You are there, you are always there, standing in the center of the circular chamber where the walls breathe with the damp chill of the earth, the air thick with the scent of old stone and the metallic tang of blood that seems to seep...
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