The Distant Crown
The spectral weight sat on Elias Thorne’s skull like a leaden cap, cold and unyielding. He adjusted his magnifying loupe, the glass trembling slightly in his grip, and stared at the gilded leaf of King Harold’s diadem. Three months. That was all that remained before his retirement, before the museum would strip him of his title and hand over the keys to the Hall of Kings. He had spent twenty...
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