The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-22 20:03:33 -

The boy is burning the books again, Elias thought, waking with the taste of ash in his mouth. He sat up in the narrow cot, his joints popping in the cold stone room. The dream was always the same: a scriptorium, the smell of charred vellum, and the boy, faceless, feeding pages to a fire that did not roar but hissed. Elias rubbed his face. He was thirty-four years old. He had served twelve years...

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