The Wistful Mountain
The hall was thick with the scent of roasted venison and beeswax, the air so heavy with the warmth of two hundred bodies that it felt less like a room and more like a lung, expanding and contracting in the dim, candle-lit gloom. It was the Feast of the Long Night, a tradition so ancient in this valley that no one remembered when it had begun, only that it had to be done, that the fire had to be...
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