The Wistful Mountain
The mortar under my fingernails crumbled into black dust before the first drop of rain hit the cobbles. I stood before the Great Gate of Aldenford, a forty-year-old watchman named Elias, watching the ancient stone breathe with a slow, sickly rhythm that had no place in the solid rock. My task was simple, or so the Magistrate had claimed: secure the final seal on the city’s debt ledger before...
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