The Wistful Mountain
Elias Thorne’s fingers were black with grease as he tightened the bolt on the resonance dampener. The tool slipped, biting a fresh line into his palm, but he did not flinch. He was forty-five years old, a border warden for the Iron Spire, and his pension depended on the stability of this machine. The static was already there. It hummed in the air, a low vibration that turned the snow outside...
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