The Wistful Mountain
The fire in the Great Crucible did not roar; it whispered, a low, sibilant hiss that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He stood before the ancient vessel, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had fallen over the Guild Hall. For forty-two years, Elias had been a scholar of the arcane, a man of books and careful, sterile...
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