The Wistful Mountain
The rain in Aethelgard does not fall so much as it is exhaled, a constant, cold mist that clings to the stone walls of the citadel and seeps into the marrow of anyone who dares to look too long at the peaks. I am Kaelen, a Warden of the Iron Gate, and I have spent the last three years polishing the same tarnished silver compass that belonged to my brother, Thomas, until the metal was worn...
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