The Wistful Cipher

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2026-08-20 19:31:24 -

The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the ancient oaks of the Blackwood Ridge into weeping sentinels, their branches heavy with a slush that smelled of rot and iron. I stood at the edge of the clearing, my boots sinking into the mud that sucked at my legs with a viscous, reluctant grip, watching the mist curl around the base of the Great Stone. It was a monolith of grey granite,...

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