The Wistful Ashes
The bell tolls. It is a heavy, iron sound. It does not ring for time. It rings for hunger. You count the stones. You have always counted them. They are grey and rough. They sit in the courtyard of the Hall. There are three hundred and twelve. You know this because you have laid them out in rows. You have smoothed the moss from their faces. You are the Keeper of the Ledger. This is your title....
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