The Wistful Mountain
The mist in the valley of Oakhaven did not drift; it hung, a thick, grey curtain that swallowed the base of the mountains and the stone cottages of the village, leaving only the upper peaks visible as jagged teeth against a pale, winter sky. Elias Thorne, forty years old and a master of the old binding arts, stood at the edge of the Mirror of the Valley, his breath pluming in the freezing air,...
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