The Distant Crown
The dream was always the same. My father’s sword, snapped clean in two, lying on the cold floor of a room I could not see. I woke with my hands trembling, the phantom weight of the hilt still burning in my palms. I sat up in the narrow cot, the damp air of the barracks settling into my lungs. My tunic hung loosely on my frame, the fabric thin and worn at the elbows, the hem frayed into threads...
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