The Wistful Mountain
The fire did not begin with a spark, nor with a match, nor with the careless drop of a lantern, but with a sudden, violent inhalation from the walls themselves, a gasping that pulled the air from the lungs of every soul in the house and replaced it with a scent so thick and cloying that it tasted of copper and rotting lilies. Colonel Elias Thorne stood in the center of the drawing room, his...
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