The Wistful Mountain
The parchment was brittle, the ink faded to the color of dried blood. I held it up to the grey light of the tent, my fingers trembling against the rough fiber. It was a letter from the court, signed by the King’s own hand, granting me the right to rebuild the chapel on the ridge. It was also a threat. My sister, Elara, was dying in the valley below, her lungs filling with the black water that...
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