The Distant Ghost
The ironworks had not burned, but it had bled. For three days, the sky above the valley of Ashford had been a bruised purple, choked by the soot of a war that had ended in a treaty signed in ink that had not yet dried. The air tasted of copper and old ash. In the center of the town square, where the market stalls had once stood, there was now only a circle of black glass, fused by the heat of a...
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