The Wistful Saga
The cellar smelled of damp stone and the sharp, metallic tang of old iron. Elara stood by the hearth, her hands wrapped around a clay mug that offered little warmth. Outside, the wind moaned against the shutters of the manor, a low, persistent groan that matched the hollow ache in her chest. She was a keeper of the house, a guardian of its silence, but tonight the silence felt heavy,...
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