The Distant Crown
In the crater city of Vael, the wind did not blow so much as it scraped, carrying the grit of the loess cliffs into every crevice. Yeva Tovey stood before the furnace, the heat of it pressing against her face like a physical weight. She was forty-two, her hands scarred by decades of molten sand, and she had one night left to finish the Royal Chalice. The court whispered that her lineage was...
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