The Distant Crown
The brass trigger guard of your service rifle is cold, biting into the pad of your thumb. It is slick with a mixture of rain and something darker, a grime that seems to have seeped up from the cobblestones themselves. You try to clear the jam, your fingers fumbling inside the action, but the bolt is stuck fast, locked by a sudden, unnatural cold that has nothing to do with the November wind....
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