The Wistful Ashes
The kiln in the basement of the old textile mill hummed with a low, tectonic vibration that Edward Vane could feel in the marrow of his teeth. It was a sound that had become the rhythm of his life, a steady, metallic pulse that drowned out the chaotic noise of the city above. Outside, the streets of Oakhaven were thick with the grey fog of industry, a smog that clung to the soot-stained...
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