The Wistful Mountain
The letter from Lord Vane lay on my desk, the paper heavy and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the damp wool of his messenger’s cloak. It was a simple order, three lines of ink that demanded the immediate cessation of the survey and the erasure of the ley lines I had spent the last six weeks tracing in the Blackwood Ridge. I read it again, the cold seeping into my fingers, knowing that...
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