The Wistful Skyline
The carriage wheels groaned against the packed earth of the King’s Highway, a rhythmic, wooden percussion that seemed to count the minutes of my exile, as I pressed my face against the cold, condensation-sweated glass to watch the mist retreat from the valley below, revealing the jagged spine of the Blackwood Ridge where the old family estates still clung to the cliffside like barnacles on a...
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