The Wistful Mountain
You stand before the mirror in the high-ceilinged study of your ancestral estate, the glass trembling not from wind, but from the weight of the centuries it has held. The room is a cavern of dust and silence, the air thick with the scent of decaying oak and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. You are a scholar of the arcane, a keeper of histories that no living soul remembers, and you have...
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