The Wistful Ashes
Elias, you’re late. The voice belonged to Magistrate Thorne, and it cut through the fog in my head like a knife through wet leather. I blinked, the cold of the cellar pressing against my shins, and realized I had been standing in the scriptorium for an hour, staring at the blank page of the census ledger. My hands were shaking. They always shook when the dream came, but today the dream had not...
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