The Wistful Mountain
The frost does not kill; it edits. It strips away the superfluous, the warm, the soft, until only the essential cold remains. You are Elias Thorne, and you have walked the mist-shrouded peaks of the old kingdom for twenty years, guarding the Gate of Whispers. Your hands are cracked, your joints stiff with a pain that mimics the winter, but your mind is sharp, driven by a singular, burning need:...
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