The Distant Legend
The dream is always the same, a suffocating tightness in the chest where the stone meets the mortar, and I wake with my hands gripping the edge of the cot, the silence of the watchtower pressing against my eardrums like deep water. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border warden in the frozen north, and I have held this post for twenty years, long enough to know that the wind here does...
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