The Distant Crown
The dampness in the archive cellar did not smell of mildew, but of iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and settled in the hollows of my knees. I was thirty-two years old, and I had spent the last decade erasing the truth from the margins of history, but tonight, the Treaty of Ashwood demanded more than erasure; it demanded my blood. The winter solstice was three days away,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews