The Wistful Ashes
The chisel slipped, biting into the salt vein with a sound like a bone snapping. I wiped the grit from my eyes, the taste of brine sharp on my tongue, and looked up at the Overseer. He stood at the edge of the pit, his coat immaculate against the grey dust, holding the requisition form I had signed that morning. "You are late, Warden," he said. His voice was flat, stripped of anything that...
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