The Wistful Mountain
The fog clings to the Scottish Highlands like a shroud woven from the breath of the dead, and you move through it with the heavy, rhythmic cadence of a man who has forgotten how to walk for himself, walking instead for the weight of the iron on your back and the silence in your chest. You are Sir Cedric of the Northern Watch, a title that sounds less like a honor and more like a sentence, a...
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