The Distant Crown

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2026-08-22 02:58:17 -

The Distant Crown

The ink was black. It was the color of the night sky above the moors, thick and suffocating. I held the quill. My hand shook. Not from cold, though the draft cut through the wool of my sleeve. It shook from the weight of the words I knew I had to write. The village of Oakhaven lay below us, a sprawl of thatch and stone, silent as a grave. My father, Thomas, stood by the window. He did not look...

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