The Wistful Ashes
The Feast of the Broken Bell rang out across the valley, a sound like tearing silk that vibrated in the marrow of the stones. It was a celebration of survival, or so the Bellsayers claimed, a joyous acknowledgment that another year had passed without the Ash falling. The air was thick with the scent of roasted pine and damp earth, a heavy, cloying perfume that stuck to the tongue. Thomas...
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