The Wistful Mountain
The tallow candle sputtered, casting long, jagged shadows that danced against the damp stone walls of the scriptorium, where Elias, a twenty-four-year-old scribe with fingers permanently stained the color of dried blood, frantically copied the Duke’s latest decree, his hands trembling not from the biting November cold but from the visceral, primal terror of his father’s impending execution, a...
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