The Distant Crown
The iron was cold. I held it in my palm. It did not burn. That was the first wrong thing. I am Sir Thomas. I am the shield. I am the wall. The room was small. Stone walls. A single window. Rain lashed the glass. I sat in a chair. My legs were stiff. I looked at the iron. It was a horseshoe. No. It was a fragment of a crown. Iron. Black. Rust ate the edges. I picked it up. It was light. Too...
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