The Distant Crown
Elias Thorne, you are standing on the edge of the world, and you are going to fall. The voice did not come from below, where the fog clung to the cobblestones of Oakhaven like a wet shroud, but from the stone itself, a vibration that traveled up through the soles of Elias’s boots and into the marrow of his shins. He stood atop the unfinished Spire, the wind tearing at his roughspun coat, the...
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