The Distant Crown
Leszek Piotrowski stood in the lecture hall, the iron crown fused to his skull burning a hot, white line against his skin, and remembered the weight of the empty bridal chest he had dragged up the manor’s back stairs that morning. The air in the room was heavy with wet wool and the low hum of the projector, a sound like a cable singing under tension, and he watched the Dean, a man named...
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