The Distant Crown
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the bruised sky, a heavy, sulfurous mist that clung to the grey stone walls of the Keep of Austerlitz. It was a damp that seeped into the marrow, into the joints, into the very soul of the man who stood at the threshold of the great hall. Sir Julian Thorne did not shiver, though his armor, once a mirror of polished steel, was now pitted and...
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