The Wistful Mountain
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, cold drumming that turned the cobblestones of the lower village into a slick, reflective mirror of the grey sky, and it was into this damp, suffocating atmosphere that Elias Thorne stepped, his boots heavy with the mud of the high passes and his mind heavier still with the silence that had followed his departure from the Abbey, a silence...
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