The Wistful Ashes
The fog does not roll in here; it stands still, a thick, grey curtain that smells of wet wool and old iron. You are sitting in the corner of the Reading Room, a space that has been carved out of the solid rock of the mountain, where the air is thin and the silence is so heavy it presses against your eardrums like deep water. You are Elias, and you are the Archivist, though the title feels like...
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