The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-22 06:19:23 -

The dream always began with the weight of wool and the scent of old blood. Sir Cedric woke in the small hours, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, the damp chill of the castle stone seeping through his thin tunic. He was forty years old, his joints stiff with the accumulated ache of three decades in the King’s Guard, and he lay in the darkness of his narrow room, staring...

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