The Wistful Mountain
Forty-seven of the Tannery Steps led up to the pass, and Riku Fujiwara counted them every morning as if the number would change. It did not. The mist, however, changed everything. It rolled in from the northern ridge, a cold, gray eraser that wiped the footprints from the stone and the voices from the air. Riku was thirty-two, a border guard with six months left on his contract, and he needed...
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