The Wistful Mountain
The feast was a cacophony of clinking silver and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted venison, a sensory assault that seemed to thicken the air in the great hall until it was nearly impossible to breathe. I sat at the edge of the long oak table, my hands folded in my lap, watching the sweat bead on my forehead despite the chill that seeped through the stone walls. Lord Ashworth, the magistrate...
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