The Wistful Mountain
The rain fell on the city of Aethelgard in sheets of grey iron, blurring the edges of the cobblestones until the world seemed to dissolve into a single, weeping texture. Elias Vane walked with a steady, deliberate pace, his boots striking the wet pavement with a rhythmic dullness that matched the beat of his heart. He was a man of middle years, his face carved by wind and worry, his eyes...
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