The Wistful Ashes
The clay token in your hand is warm, stained with the grease of roasted duck and the sweat of your palm. You are Elias, forty-two, a scribe of the Third Rank in the Iron Citadel, and you are holding the only thing that might save your daughter’s life. The hall is a cavern of stone and shadow, lit by the harsh, blue-white glow of gas lamps that hiss like angry spirits in the copper fixtures. The...
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