The Wistful Saga
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a sigh, a long, exhalation of heat that seemed to rise from the very stones of the house, turning the air in the great hall into a thick, shimmering curtain that distorted the faces of those who stood before it. I watched the flames lick up the legs of the oak table where my father had broken his bread for thirty years, and I felt no fear, only a...
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