The Wistful Ashes
The smoke did not rise in the familiar, lazy columns that signaled a home fire, but rather surged in a thick, opaque wall that swallowed the morning light, a living entity that breathed and pulsed with a malice that Edith Vane felt in the marrow of her bones before she understood the mechanics of its creation. She stood at the edge of the ravine, her hands trembling not from the cold that bit...
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