The Wistful Mountain

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 01:52:46 -

The feast was loud. Too loud. Candles burned low in iron sconces. The wax dripped hot. It smelled of tallow and fear. I sat at the high table. My chair creaked. It was a fine chair. Carved from oak. The arms were worn smooth by years of hands. My hands. I had sat here for twenty years. The wood knew me. I knew the wood. We were one thing. Lord Ashworth raised his cup. "To the house," he said....

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