The Wistful Mountain
The great hall of the Ashworth estate smelled of roasted pheasant and stale wine, a heavy, cloying scent that seemed to press against the windows like a fog. It was the Feast of the Silver Key, a tradition so old that the villagers in the valley below had forgotten the name of the lord who started it, remembering only the ritual of the silence that followed the third course. Margaret sat at the...
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