The Distant Crown
The tremor in Sir Aldric’s right hand was not a spasm but a rhythm, a slow, grinding oscillation that matched the tick of the castle clock in the tower above, and he used it to wind the mainspring of the portcullis mechanism, his fingers slick with grease and sweat as the iron chain groaned against the stone. He had been awake for three days, the recurring dream of the bone crown pressing...
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