The Wistful Voyage
The rain in the valley of Aethelgard did not fall so much as it descended, a thick, gray curtain that smelled of wet stone and ancient, rotting moss, and it was under this oppressive veil that Elara stood at the edge of the cliff, holding the iron key in her hand, her fingers numb not from the cold but from the terrible, heavy weight of the secret she carried within her chest. She had come to...
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