The Wistful Saga
The stone did not bleed, but it remembered. It held the weight of centuries in its pores, a silent witness to the shifting tides of faith and fear that had carved its foundations into the bedrock of the valley. Thomas stood in the center of the rotunda, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. The air here was different, stale and heavy, smelling of wet...
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