The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-18 15:54:03 -

The feast was a riot of wax and wine, the air thick with the cloying scent of roasted boar and the sharper, metallic tang of ambition. In the great hall of Castle Ashworth, where the tapestries depicted ancestors who had long since turned to dust, the candles burned low, casting long, trembling shadows that danced against the stone walls like the fingers of the dead. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at...

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