The Wistful Ashes
The train shuddered to a halt at the edge of the Grey District, the wheels locking with a screech that sounded like a bone snapping. I stepped onto the platform, my breath misting in the cold air that smelled of ozone and burnt sugar. The city before me was a labyrinth of grey stone and glass, towering spires piercing the low, bruised clouds. It was beautiful in the way a knife is beautiful,...
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