The Distant Crown
The ink was black as a bruise and smelled of iron. Thomas Bradshaw pressed the quill into the parchment, his wrist aching from the angle, and watched the letter form. It was the seventh line of the Royal Charter, the one that bound Oakhaven to the Crown. He had stolen the vellum from the Guild Master’s shelf, a risk that felt less like theft and more like a sacrament. Outside, the rain lashed...
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