The Wistful Mountain
The fire in the great hall of King Aldric’s castle roared with a hunger that seemed to consume the very air, spitting sparks into the darkness like angry stars trying to escape the roof. I stood by the heavy oak table, my hands trembling slightly as I adjusted the collar of the velvet mantle I was wearing, a garment that felt less like cloth and more like a second skin grown from the shadows of...
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