The Wistful Ashes
The uniform was too tight across the shoulders. It had been tailored for a broader man, a ghost of a corporal who had died in the trenches three winters ago, and now it hung on Elias like a skin that did not fit. He stood in the center of the Grand Hall, the marble floor cold through his boots, and watched the doors close behind him. The sound was not a slam but a sigh, a heavy, pneumatic...
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