The Distant Crown
The fog does not roll in so much as it exhalation, a wet, grey breath that rises from the cobblestones of the city and settles into the hollows of your bones, a living thing that knows your name and whispers it back to you in the voices of the dead. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a night-shift archivist in the basement of the Municipal Records Bureau, and you have spent the last...
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