The Wistful Ashes
The air inside the Vault did not move. It hung thick and stale, a preserved breath held for centuries, smelling of ozone, old paper, and the metallic tang of fear that had long since calcified into the very stone walls. Silas Vane sat in the center of the circular room, his fingers tracing the grooves of the Ledger, the massive tome that contained the sum of all human debts, both financial and...
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