The Wistful Mountain
The mist in the valley of Oakhaven did not rise; it hung, a thick, wet wool that smelled of rot and ancient stone. Twelve-year-old Elias sat in the scriptorium, his quill trembling in a hand that had not stopped shaking since dawn. He was a scribe’s apprentice, a boy of ink and silence, but his heart was a drum beating against the ribs of a cage. His mother lay in the cottage below, her breath...
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