The Distant Crown
The mist in the valley of Aethelgard did not behave like weather; it behaved like a predator, thick and grey, swirling around the jagged ruins of the Silver Spire with a deliberate, hungry patience. Twelve-year-old Elian Ashworth stood in the center of the shattered courtyard, his fingers white-knuckled around a circlet of black obsidian that pulsed with a cold, rhythmic throb against his palm....
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