The Distant Crown
The mud of the Siege of Acre sucked at Sir Kaelen’s boots like a living thing, thick and cold against the iron greaves that had once been polished to a mirror shine for the court. He gripped his sword until his knuckles turned white, the metal biting into his palm, his eyes fixed not on the enemy saracens pressing against the palisade, but on the flickering, ghostly halo that hovered above the...
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