The Wistful Ashes
The train hissed, a long, dying breath. I stood on the platform of St. Jude’s, the iron grid beneath my boots vibrating with the ghost of the engine’s power. The city of New Albion loomed above, a jagged tooth of steel and soot against a sky the color of bruised slate. I held the jar. It was heavy. Not with weight, but with silence. Inside, the single seed of the Iron Oak lay dormant, wrapped...
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