The Distant Crown
The ink in the pot was the color of dried blood, thick and gritty under Elara’s fingernails as she pressed the quill to the parchment, the tip scratching a sound that seemed to cut through the heavy, stagnant air of the High Council chamber. She did not look up at the seven men seated in the high-backed chairs, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods, but she could feel their...
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