The Wistful Ashes
The bread is stone. You know this before you bite. You know it because the air in the house tastes of iron and old dust, a flavor that coats the tongue and refuses to leave. You are the Warden of the Hearth, a title that sounds like a promise but feels like a noose. In the village of Oakhaven, which sits in the hollow of a valley that does not appear on any modern map, the hearth is not a place...
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