The Distant Crown
The quill scratched against the vellum, a dry, rasping sound that seemed to scrape the bone beneath Thomas’s skin. He was thirty years old, though he looked older, his face gaunt and mapped with the fine lines of a man who slept little and feared much. The year was 1348, and the winter solstice was three days away. Thomas needed to finish the ledger. If the accounts for the estate were not...
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