The Distant Legend
The wind off the moor did not howl; it whispered, a dry and rasping sound like the turning of old parchment, carrying with it the scent of wet peat and the metallic tang of approaching rain. Elara walked with her head bowed, the hem of her grey wool dress dragging through the mud, leaving a dark, wet trail that the wind quickly erased. She was carrying nothing but the weight of the silence in...
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