The Golden Master
The wind does not howl here; it speaks in a frequency that bypasses the ear and settles directly into the marrow, a low, vibrating hum that suggests the very stone beneath your boots is a struck bell. You walk the spine of the ridge, the path a narrow scar of white chalk against the dark, heather-choked earth. It is the age of legends, or perhaps the time just before them, when the air was...
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