The Wistful Mountain
The glass sphere sat upon the rough-hewn oak table, a perfect, cold eye staring into the heart of the room. It was not a sphere of crystal, though it held the clarity of ice, but a hollowed-out geode, its interior lined with a lattice of amethyst so deep it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. Elias Thorne, a man whose face was a map of deep, silent ravines carved by decades of...
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