The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-22 05:45:36 -

The Wistful Ashes

The hall smelled of roasted lamb and old blood. I sat at the long table, my fingers wrapped around the cold steel of my chisel, watching the candlelight flicker against the stone walls of the Iron Citadel. My name, Silas, was half-erased on my forearm. The ink faded as I forgot my sins, and lately, I had forgotten much. I was forty years old, a Warden for twenty, and I held the chisel ready to...

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