The Wistful Ashes
The train cut through the grey expanse of the English moors, a steel vein pulsing with the cold breath of the early twenty-first century, carrying Elias Thorne toward the capital where the air was thick with the scent of ozone and unspoken judgments. He sat in the corner of the carriage, his posture rigid as a man holding a secret in his teeth, his eyes fixed on the window where the passing...
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