The Wistful Mountain
The road ends. You know this. You have walked it for three days, your boots grinding against the slate, the air thinning until your lungs burn with every intake. The fortress of St. Jude’s sits in a bowl of stone, cut from the living rock of the highlands. It is a place of shadows and silence, a monastic cell where men go to be broken. You are one of them. You are a soldier. Or you were. Now...
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