The Wistful Ashes
The toast is to the stability of the nation, and the liquid in your glass tastes of iron filings and burnt sugar. "Drink, Elias," Vane says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against the crystal stem. "For the purity of our minds." You drink. The liquid is cold, slick, and leaves a metallic residue on the back of your throat that does not wash away. Around the banquet hall, the other...
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