The Wistful Ashes
The sky above the city of Oakhaven did not fall; it dissolved, peeling away in great, translucent sheets of bruised violet and grey that hung suspended in the air like the torn linings of old wounds, revealing the jagged, starless void behind a reality that was slowly forgetting how to hold itself together. I stood on the bridge of the iron barge, watching the water below churn into a froth of...
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