The Distant Crown
The chisel bit into the steel plate with a sound like a bone snapping under a boot, and Elias Thorne felt the vibration travel up his forearm, settling into the marrow of his wrist. He was forty-two years old, and his hands, once steady enough to trace the veins of a leaf in microscopic detail, now trembled with a fatigue that sleep could not cure. Before him lay the "Crown of Silence," a...
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