The Wistful Mountain
The rain lashed against the stone. It was a gray, relentless drumming. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the moor. He was old. His coat was soaked. He held his sword. The blade was dull. Behind him, the Keep rose. It was a fist of black rock. It pierced the sky. It had stood for a thousand years. It did not move. It did not bleed. It simply was. A boy ran up the hill. His name was Kael....
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