The Distant Crown
The letter lay on the splintered desk, its edges curled from the damp air of the attic. I stared at the ink, still wet, the words sharp and demanding: *Coordinates for the Crown Archive. Proof of Thomas Vane’s innocence. Immediate.* Outside, the artillery thudded against the earth, a rhythmic pounding that shook the dust from the rafters and settled it on my shoulders like ash. I was forty...
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