The Wistful Mountain
The dream began with the smell of wet wool and iron. It was not a dream of sleep, but of waking, a persistent, foggy intrusion into the hours when the body should be at rest. Silas Vane lay in the narrow bed of his stone chamber, the air cold enough to make his breath visible in the faint shafts of moonlight that cut through the high, barred window. He was an Inquisitor of the High Court, a...
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