The Wistful Ashes
The rain in Sector Four does not fall; it is extracted. We call it the Weeping, though there is no sorrow in the water, only the cold, chemical scent of scrubbed ozone and the faint, metallic tang of processed sewage. I stood at the edge of the Perimeter, my boots sinking into the sludge that passed for soil, watching the mist curl around the spires of the Citadel. As a Warden of the Third...
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