The Wistful Mountain
Thorne. The name hit the back of your skull like a hammer strike on cold iron. You looked up from the ledger. Your hand was still resting on the inkwell, the quill dripping a black tear onto the page. "Thorne, look at me." Colonel Vane stood by the window. His face was a mask of bureaucratic disapproval, the kind that hid a rot beneath. He was a man who wore his authority like a heavy coat,...
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