The Distant Crown
The pen had stopped moving, the nib pressed hard against the vellum until the ink pooled into a dark, trembling bead, but Elias Thorne did not notice, his hands shaking with the specific, cold damp that seeps into the bones of anyone who has spent too long in the Department of Civic Memory’s sub-basement archives. The fog outside the high, barred windows was not merely weather; it was a...
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