The Wistful Mountain
The bell tolled seven times, a low, guttural groan that vibrated in the fillings of your teeth and settled heavy in the hollow of your chest. You stood at the edge of the quarry, the wet stone slick under your boots, and watched the mist roll off the water like a shroud being peeled from a face. "You hear it," said Elias. He did not look at you. He was carving a symbol into the limestone wall,...
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