The Wistful Mountain
The fog had swallowed the castle by the time you reached the gate, a white shroud that erased the distinction between the stone and the sky. You stood there, your hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the object in your satchel, and you watched the iron bars of the gate groan open under the hand of a servant whose face was a void in the mist. You are not here to be welcomed....
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