The Wistful Ashes
The feast of the autumnal equinox had begun in the village of Oakhaven, a sprawling sprawl of thatched roofs and muddy lanes that clung to the cliffs like barnacles on a hull, where the air was thick with the scent of roasting turnips, woodsmoke, and the cloying, metallic tang of fear that had settled over the community like a damp fog that refused to lift. Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were...
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