The Wistful Mountain
The iron gate of the Blackwood Manor was never locked, but the hinges screamed with a sound like a dying bird every time you pushed it open. You had been living in the west wing for three years, ever since your father, the Lord of the Manor, had fallen into his long sleep. The house was old, older than the kingdom, its stones dark and porous, drinking in the rain that fell here not in drops but...
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