The Wistful Saga
The road to the northern pass was not a path so much as a scar, a deep, festering wound cut into the grey flanks of the mountains where the snow had failed to hold its promise of purity. It was a place of absolute silence, a silence so profound it felt less like the absence of sound and more like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums, a heavy, wet wool that muffled the beating of the...
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