The Wistful Ashes
The fog does not roll in. It stands. You feel it before you see it, a pressure against the eardrums, a cold that has nothing to do with the temperature. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a border warden of the Iron Age, and you are running. Your boots strike the packed earth with a rhythm that is less a stride and more a desperate attempt to outrun your own heartbeat. The sealed letter is in...
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