The Distant Crown
The damp in the cellar of Ashworth Hall did not merely settle into the stones; it breathed, a cold, wet exhalation that rose from the flagstones to chill the soles of Elara’s boots as she descended the spiral stairs with her lantern held low, the flame trembling against the darkness that seemed to press against the glass. She was thirty-two years old, a woman whose face had become as...
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