The Faded Alibi
The silver circlet burns in the dark, a white-hot ring of light that sears the backs of your closed eyelids, and you wake with the taste of iron in your mouth, the year 1240 pressing down on the damp stone of your cell like a physical weight, the air thick with the smell of mildew and the distant, echoing toll of the midnight bell that marks the hour when the King’s blood was spilled and your...
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