The Distant Crown
The ink on the parchment did not dry; it pooled. Elias watched the black liquid rise from the baseline of the text, forming a viscous, breathing sludge that defied the gravity of the high table in the Archivist’s tower. He was forty years old, a man whose spine had curved over decades of bent paper, but tonight his hands were steady as he traced the edge of the "Distant Crown." The manuscript...
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