The Wistful Ashes
Mara woke with the taste of copper and burnt sugar on her tongue, a sensation so visceral it felt less like memory and more like a physical wound reopening in the back of her throat. She lay still for a moment, listening to the hum of the ventilation system, a low, droning drone that had become the soundtrack of her existence in the Institute. The air in the ward was sterile, scented with...
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