The Wistful Ashes
The rain in Oakhaven does not fall so much as it settles, a persistent, gray drizzle that soaks into the bone and turns the cobblestones into slick, black mirrors reflecting a sky that has forgotten the sun. You walk the narrow streets of the lower quarter, where the stone walls weep with moss and the air tastes of wet ash and old iron, your boots heavy with the mud of a world that is slowly...
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