The Wistful Mountain
The rain fell in a steady, gray sheet over the cobblestones of the old town square, washing the dust from the faces of the merchants who had gathered for the annual inventory of the Guild Hall. Elara stood by the window of her stall, her fingers tracing the grain of a mahogany table leg, her eyes fixed not on the wood but on the reflection of her own face in the dark glass. She was a woman of...
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