The Wistful Crossroads
The rain in the valley did not fall; it hovered, a suspended veil of gray mist that clung to the cobblestones of the courtyard like a shroud. You stood at the threshold of the Great Hall, your hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the silence you had carried for thirty years. The air smelled of wet stone and old parchment, the scent of a place that had outlived the men who...
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