The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-20 12:52:09 -

The hall smelled of roasted pheasant and wet wool. You sat at the edge of the long oak table, your hands folded in your lap, feeling the cold stone floor seep through your boots. The candles burned low. The shadows stretched long and thin across the tapestries, where kings and saints stared out with eyes of painted glass. Your father, Lord Ashworth, sat at the head. He did not look at you. He...

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