The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-22 12:41:01 -

The feast in the Great Hall of Aethelgard was a riot of silver light and clinking crystal, the air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of every bone. Elias, a scribe of no particular rank, stood at the edge of the dais, clutching a small, pulsing seed in his palm, feeling the heat of it against his skin like a coal wrapped in...

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