The Wistful Mountain
The mud in the courtyard of Fort Blackwood is not merely wet; it is a living, sucking thing that pulls at your boots with the tenacity of a grave. You stand before the prisoner, the rain hammering the stone walls until the air tastes of iron and cold stone. You are Elias, thirty-two, a captain of the border guard, and your hand rests on the hilt of your sword, trembling not from cold, but from...
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