The Distant Crown
The feast hall of Aethelgard smelled of roasted venison and old blood, a scent that clung to the tapestries and the breath of the thirty nobles seated around the long oak table. King Eamon sat at the head of the table, his hands resting on the arms of the carved chair, though his mind was not on the meal but on the object resting on the table before him. The Shattered Crown lay there, a jagged...
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