The Wistful Mountain
The road to the High House was not a road at all, but a scar in the earth, carved by centuries of mud and the heavy tread of iron wheels. It climbed the northern ridge, where the air grew thin and tasted of iron and old stone. Elias Thorne walked it with the weary gait of a man who had spent forty years carrying more than he could hold. He was not a man of grand stature, nor of striking...
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