The Wistful Ashes
The seal on your door is red wax, pressed with the weight of a magistrate’s thumb, and it feels less like a mark of authority and more like a bruise on the wood. You stand in the center of your workshop, the heat of the glory hole still radiating against your shins, and you watch the dust motes dance in the shaft of grey light that cuts through the high, arched window. The year is the Silent...
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