The Distant Crown
November 12, 1998 The paper was heavy, cream-colored, and smelled of the lemon polish they use on the conference tables. I held the pen, the tip hovering a millimeter above the signature line, while Colonel Vance sat across from me, his face a mask of polite exhaustion. The room was too warm, the air thick with the scent of roasted beef and spilled wine from the retirement banquet we had just...
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