The Wistful Asylum
"You will burn." The voice came from the edge of the firelight, low and steady. It was not a threat. It was a fact, stated with the same weary certainty as the wind outside the tent. Margaret did not look up from the bundle of dry reeds she was weaving. Her fingers were stiff, cold, and cracked. The reeds bit into her palms, leaving thin white lines that would turn red by morning. She kept her...
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