The Wistful Mountain
The wind in the valley of Ashford did not merely blow; it exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that carried the scent of damp stone and decaying oak. It was a wind that knew the secrets of the deep earth, and it had been waiting, with the patience of geology, for Elias Thorne to arrive. Elias stood before the gate of the old manor, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the sheer,...
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