The Distant Crown
The gray rot did not smell of decay, but of ozone and old iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he stood before the shattered window of his office, watching the industrial skyline of Oakhaven dissolve into a mist that swallowed the spires of the textile mills one by one. He was thirty years old, a man whose spine had been straightened by the rigid doctrine of...
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