The Distant Crown
The ledger lay in Elias Thorne’s hands, its cover warped by decades of damp, the spine cracked like old bone. He held it in the basement of the municipal building, where the air smelled of wet limestone and rot, and the single bulb overhead flickered with a sickly, jaundiced light. The pages were brittle, the ink fading into a brown slurry that bled under his fingertips, a physical decay that...
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