The Wistful Mountain
The fog did not merely obscure the view; it possessed a texture, a gritty, saline weight that pressed against your face like a damp cloth, erasing the topographic lines you had drawn only hours before with a slow, deliberate erasure that felt less like weather and more like a personal insult. You, Elias Thorne, thirty-two and the most junior cartographer in the employ of the Aethelgard Royal...
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