The Wistful Mountain
Elias, you are late, and the ledger is not going to write itself. The voice came from the shadows of the high-ceilinged hall, dry and papery, belonging to Archivist Thorne, who stood by the heavy oak desk with his arms crossed over a chest that seemed to contain nothing but dust and old paper. Elias adjusted the strap of his leather satchel, the weight of it pulling at his shoulder as he...
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