The Wistful Ashes
The train did not screech as it arrived at the Citadel of Ostrava, but rather groaned, a low, tectonic shifting of metal on metal that seemed to come from the earth itself rather than the locomotive. I stood at the platform’s edge, my boots heavy with the dust of the southern marches, and watched the passengers disembark. They moved with the rigid, synchronized precision of a mechanism long...
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