The Distant Crown
Thorne, you’re letting the porch rot, and it’s not just the wood that’s failing. The voice came from the yard, low and gravelly, stripped of the usual deference that constable Miller had worn like a second skin for the better part of two decades. Elias did not turn immediately; he stood with his back to the rain, his fingers working the silver locket until the metal bit into his skin, a cold...
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