The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-23 21:45:15 -

The feast was loud, a cacophony of silverware and laughter that vibrated against my ribs. I stood in the shadows of the Great Hall, my fingers twitching at my sides, holding a small clay cup. Mara sat at the high table, her face pale as parchment under the chandeliers. She looked at me, her eyes hollow, and I knew the sickness had taken another inch. The Duke of Ashworth, my superior, raised...

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