The Wistful Mountain
The fog in Oakhaven did not merely obscure; it clung, a damp and suffocating shroud that smelled of wet limestone and old iron. Elias Thorne pulled his collar up against the chill as he climbed the scaffolding, his boots finding purchase on the slick wooden planks with the practiced ease of a man who had spent the last decade breathing dust and chipping rock. He was thirty years old, but his...
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