The Wistful Voyage
The storm did not arrive; it erupted from the marrow of the earth, a jagged tearing of the sky that left you, Eleanor, standing in the wet, churning mud of the valley floor with the heavy, rusted iron of the family seal pressed so hard into your palm that the metal had begun to sink into the meat of your hand, a cold, biting anchor in the chaos of the wind that screamed through the skeletal...
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