The Wistful Mountain
The bell did not ring, for the tongue of the great bronze beast had been severed by a stray ballista bolt three days prior, leaving only a hollow, screaming mouth that exhaled the cold breath of the city’s dying soul into the cobblestone streets of Aethelgard. It was a Tuesday, or what passed for a Tuesday in the endless grey haze of a siege that had forgotten the sun, when Elias Vane, a man...
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