The Wistful Ashes
The glass in Elara’s hand was cold, the synthetic wine inside a pale, chemical yellow that tasted of nothing but the effort of making it. She stood at the edge of the high-ceilinged dining hall of the State Archive, watching Director Halloway raise his own glass, the crystal catching the sterile white light from above. Around the long table, thirty other archivists lifted their cups in unison,...
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