The Distant Crown
The spore bloom on Thomas’s temple had the texture of dried moss, a pale, crusty ring that pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent rhythm against the fevered heat of his skin. It was the fourteenth of November, 1342, and the air in Ravenna tasted of rot and wet ash, the city choking under the weight of the Black Death while you, Elias, stood over your apprentice’s cot, your hands trembling not from...
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