The Distant Crown
1342, The Keep of Vane The rain has not stopped for three days, turning the moat into a churning, muddy eye that watches the gate with a dull, persistent malice. I sit by the hearth, the fire low and sputtering, while in the room beyond, my father makes sounds that are not quite words and not quite breaths. He is seventy years old, and his mind has begun to crumble like the old bread we eat,...
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