Mountain Dream of the Old Times
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- Englisch ausgewählt
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Beschreibung
Produktdetails
Einband
Taschenbuch
Erscheinungsdatum
13.03.2026
Verlag
Bredevoort van den BergSeitenzahl
58
Maße (L/B/H)
20.3/12.7/0.4 cm
Gewicht
74 g
Sprache
Englisch
EAN
9798233239267
MOUNTAIN DREAM OF THE OLD TIMES - HISTORICAL FICTION DARK FANTASY STORY - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERG In the shadow of the mountains, where the rock faces are as ancient as the world itself and the whistle of marmots marks the passing of days, a forgotten kingdom lies buried. This sweeping epic, rooted in the rich mythological traditions of the Alps, resurrects the oldest stories of the mountains and breathes new life into the legends that have haunted these peaks for millennia. When the mountain holds its breath, the hunter Lidsanel knows something terrible is about to unfold. The dwarves who dwell deep within the stone, wielding their secret magic and whispering cryptic prophecies, granted him three wishes long ago. The beloved princess of the Fanes people carries the weight of a curse. Ey de Net, the enemy warrior armed with a magical shield, stole her arrows under cover of darkness. Now he waits in the valley below, prepared to kill her using her own weapons. The battle that follows is one of the greatest tragedies the Alps have ever witnessed. The valley runs red with blood, the sky darkens with arrows, and what follows is a journey through time from a forgotten ancient kingdom to the modern era. This dark fantasy epic is a legend rooted in the history of the Alps. "In the mountain peak cold that precedes the rebirth of twilight, the hourglass between night and daybreak when the world of heroes freezes its breath, the mountain marmots of the Fanes plateau fell silent. Not one by one with descending whistles, but suddenly nothing. An absence like a yawn that opened the abyss, over which reality spins and fades away. Lidsanel stepped out of his hut, the fur still around his shoulders, and the silence drove into him with the deadliness of a poison arrow between his ribs. No whistling from the cliffs. No call. Just his breath cloud hanging before him, brief in the icy air. Just him standing and waiting. His mother, who gave him the name before the fever took her, had captured her love in that single word, and now he had to carry it alone. He listened until the cold bit into his ears, deep into the core of his being, but nothing came. Even the wind, that restless wanderer of the heights, stayed still, as if it too waited with the marmots for the appearance of something promised long ago."
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