The Wistful Saga
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the edge of the world where the stone met the mist. I sat in the corner of the guardhouse, a structure of rough-hewn granite that smelled of wet wool and old iron, and watched the water bead and slide down the windowpane. The mist outside was not merely weather; it was a living thing, a thick, viscous fog that...
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