The Distant Crown
The ledger shows fourteen days of rations remaining, measured in the weight of dried peas and the volume of the black broth that now serves as our only liquid sustenance. I count the spoons in the wooden crate, twelve in total for the twelve men still standing in the infirmary, and I note the chip in the third spoon’s bowl where the iron has rusted through, a small imperfection that feels like...
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