The Distant Crown

added blog Literature

2026-08-25 13:57:02 -

The Distant Crown

My hands were already black when I dipped the quill. The ink did not flow; it crawled. I was thirty-two, and the smell of the mill floor was in my throat, stale wool and wet stone, as I copied the Royal Decree. My father lay in the back room, his breath a rattle in the silence. I wanted to save him. The decree promised a cure, a mercy from the Crown, if only the scribe could render the words...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews