The Wistful Mountain
You stand at the edge of the courtyard, the gravel crunching beneath your boots with a sound that is too loud in the silence, a sound that seems to shatter the air itself into a thousand jagged pieces of glass that cut your eardrums and your heart simultaneously. The sky above the palace is not a sky but a bruise, a vast and swollen purple that presses down upon the spires, and you feel its...
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