The Wistful Skyline
The dream began with the sound of tearing silk, a sharp, wet rip that echoed in the hollow of Elias’s chest before he opened his eyes. He lay in the narrow cot in the attic of the apothecary, the air thick with the smell of dried lavender and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. Outside, the city of Ashenford stirred in the pre-dawn mist, a sprawling labyrinth of stone and shadow where the...
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