The Wistful Mountain
The dream was always the same, a blinding expanse of white peaks that offered no foothold, only a cold wind that stripped the warmth from her bones. Elara Vane woke with the taste of ice in her mouth, her heart hammering against the ribs of a body that felt too thin, too brittle for the thirty-two years it had accumulated. She lay in the narrow bed of the staff quarters at Blackwood Manor,...
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