The Wistful Mountain
The loom does not sleep. It hums, a low, tectonic vibration that rises through the stone floor and into the marrow of Elias’s shins. He is forty-two, a master weaver in the ancient city of Oren, and he is bleeding. The winter solstice is three days away, and the Grand Tapestry for the Duke remains unfinished, a sprawling void of white wool waiting to be filled with the black thread of the...
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