The Wistful Mountain
The fever broke at dawn, leaving Elias Thorne gasping in the narrow bed of the mountain sanctuary, the air thick with the scent of dried sage and the metallic tang of old blood. He did not know how long he had slept, or whether the dreams that had haunted his consciousness for weeks were fading or merely deepening their roots in his mind, for the boundary between the waking world and the...
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