The Distant Crown
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet with the dampness of the courier’s saddlebag. It was from Magistrate Aldous Thorne, demanding my presence at the manor by dusk to answer for the death of my sister, Elara. I had been a border warden for ten years, a life of routine and cold winds that had hardened me into a tool of the state, but the word *answer* struck me like a physical...
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