The Distant Crown
The crack in your chest is audible now, a dry snap like a twig breaking underfoot. You are forty-two, and the heart that once drove your cartography is failing, a stuttering engine in a body that feels increasingly like a house with the foundations rotting. You sit alone in your study in the kingdom of Oros, the fog pressing against the windowpane like a living thing, and you hold a map that is...
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