The Wistful Mountain
The iron gate of the watchtower groaned under the weight of Silas’s shoulders, a sound like a bone snapping in the thin, cold air. He was thirty years old, though the grey in his beard and the deep lines etched around his eyes suggested a man who had seen the better part of four decades, a discrepancy that the General found tedious and the mountain found irrelevant. For twenty years, Silas had...
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