The Wistful Mountain
The iron key lay on the stone table, cold and unyielding, its teeth worn smooth by the friction of a thousand rotations that had never once unlocked the door, a silent testament to the futility that had become the very fabric of his existence, and Elias sat before it in the dim, breathless air of the cell, his hands trembling not with cold but with the terrible, vibrating weight of the thing he...
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