The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it descended, a grey curtain drawn tight against the high windows of the City of Aethelgard, muffling the sounds of the world below into a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed to originate from within the stone itself. Aldous stood by the fire, his hands resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in three years, and he listened to the clock in the hall...
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