The Wistful Ashes
The year was 1042, and the Ashen Hall did not so much exist as it endured, a brutalist monolith of grey stone that seemed to grow out of the earth like a tumor, its walls weeping a black, viscous sap that smelled of wet iron and forgotten grief. Elias Thorne, the Archivist, sat alone in the central rotunda, his back pressed against the cold masonry, clutching a single, brittle page from the...
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