The Wistful Mountain
Elara. The name hangs in the air, sharp and cold, spoken by Brother Thomas with the weary finality of a verdict. You stand in the shadow of the stone archway, your hands buried deep in the pockets of your rough wool tunic, feeling the grit of the cellar floor still clinging to your skin. The monastery of St. Jude looms above you, a jagged silhouette against the bruised purple sky of late...
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