The Wistful Ashes
You wake in the sterile white of the Refectory, the taste of ash still clinging to the back of your throat like a dry, grey silt. It is a taste you have come to know intimately, a flavor that has replaced salt and sugar in your daily life. You are Elias, or so the registry claims, a name that feels too light for the weight of the history you carry. Here, in the Citadel of the Pure, names are...
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