The Wistful Mountain
The dream began not with light, but with the weight of the stone. It was a grey, cold thing, resting heavily in the palms of Aldous Thorne, a weight that seemed to anchor his soul to the earth even as his body floated in the dark. He was standing in the Great Hall of Ashworth Manor, but the hall was not the one he knew. The oak beams, which had groaned under the weight of centuries of rain and...
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