The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-23 23:47:31 -

The wind did not blow; it pressed. It was a physical weight, a gray wall of cold that pushed against Elias Thorne’s chest as he hiked up the scree slope toward the Iron Gate. He was fifty-two, his joints stiff with the ache of old bruises and newer ones, his breath a ragged, white plume that vanished into the silence. The silence was the first thing one noticed. It was not the absence of sound,...

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