The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-17 22:45:41 -

The Wistful Ashes

The rain lashed the slate. It drummed a frantic, hollow rhythm against the high windows. Inside, the air was thick. It smelled of damp wool and old blood. Thomas stood by the hearth. The fire died. Sparks drifted up. They vanished into the dark. "Speak," said the Warden. His voice was low. It scraped like stone on stone. He sat in the shadow. The chair creaked. Thomas did not move. He held his...

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