The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-19 01:27:35 -

The rain did not fall. It hung. It was a thick, grey veil of mist that clung to the granite teeth of the Blackwood Ridge, erasing the line between the sky and the stone. I walked with my pack heavy on my shoulders. The straps bit into my skin. The mud sucked at my boots with a wet, sucking sound. I was alone. Or so I thought. My name is Elias. I am a soldier. I have worn the grey uniform of the...

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