The Wistful Mountain
The iron gate of the Blackwood Keep did not creak so much as it sighed, a low, rusted exhalation that seemed to rise from the very bones of the earth, and it was into this sigh that Thomas Ashworth stepped, his boots heavy with the mud of the valley floor, the mud that had clung to him like a second skin throughout the long, winding climb that had taken him three days to traverse the treeline...
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