The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-22 09:36:06 -

The banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and stale iron. I sat at the long table. My hands trembled. The silverware clinked. A sharp sound. Like a bone breaking. General Whitmore raised his glass. The liquid was dark. Amber. Thick. He smiled. It was a thin smile. Cut into the skin. "To order," he said. His voice was low. Gravel in water. We drank. The wine burned. It went down the throat....

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