The Wistful Mountain
"You will sign this, or I will break your hand over the knee." The voice was not Elias Thorne’s. It was the wind, or perhaps the echo of a command he had given a hundred times before, stripped of its authority by the sudden, crushing weight of the mountain. Elias stood in the snow-choked pass of the Blackridge, the air so cold it felt like breathing iron filings. He was forty years old, a...
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