The Wistful Ashes
The banquet hall of the Subterranean Archive smelled of roasted pork, stale beer, and the faint, metallic tang of the air recyclers that hummed ceaselessly in the walls, a sound like a giant insect trapped in plaster. It was a Tuesday, which meant it was a day of feasting, a tradition so old that no one in the lower districts remembered why they celebrated the middle of the week, only that it...
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