The Wistful Mountain
The ridge smelled of wet iron and rotting lichen before Elara saw it. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, the leather digging into her shoulder, and checked the theodolite’s level. Thirty-two years old, twelve miles from the nearest town, and the autumn rain was not yet here, but the air tasted of it. She needed the final survey point. Without it, the estate’s boundary remained a rumor, and...
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