The Wistful Ashes
The mist did not lift. It thickened. Silas Vane stood at the edge of the cliff. Below, the city breathed. It was a slow, wet exhalation of steam and iron. The buildings were black teeth against a grey gum. They bit down on the sky. He held the jar. It was cold. The glass was slick with condensation. Inside, a single ember glowed. It was the last of the Ash. The core. The truth. Silas was the...
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