The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-19 18:17:13 -

The heavy wool of the Duke’s cloak hung from the iron hook in the antechamber, a dark, swollen thing that smelled of damp stone and old smoke, and I watched it sway gently in the draft that crept up from the cellar, a slow, pendulum rhythm that seemed to count the seconds of my own life as I stood frozen before the great oak doors. I was thirteen, small and pale in my ill-fitting tunic, and the...

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