The Wistful Ashes
Thorne. The name hung in the antiseptic air of the Ministry corridor, stripped of warmth by the ventilation system that hummed a constant, low B-flat. Elias Thorne adjusted his collar, the fabric stiff against his neck, and turned to face Director Halloway. The man’s face was a mask of bureaucratic calm, but his eyes darted to the wall where a thin vein of amber sap was slowly oozing from the...
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