The Wistful Mountain
The stone did not bleed, but it wept a grey, silt-like slurry that smelled of wet iron and forgotten centuries as Sergeant Elias Thorne dragged his weight against the unyielding flank of the Bastion, a structure so ancient and so deeply rooted in the bedrock of the city that it seemed less like a building constructed by human hands and more like a geological accident that had mistaken masonry...
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