The Distant Crown
The iron ring sat in Marcus Varrus’s palm, heavy as a stone pulled from the bottom of a river, its surface pitted and dark with rust that flaked away under the rag like dried blood. It was not gold, nor was it silver, but a jagged, ugly thing of wrought metal, and it smelled of the damp earth where he had dug it out three days ago, a smell that seemed to cling to his fingers no matter how many...
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