The Wistful Ashes
The left hand held the ledger, the paper thin as onion skin, the ink smudged where sweat had gathered in the creases of the knuckles. Sergeant Elias Thorne stared at the column of numbers, the totals for the Wardens’ supply requisitions, and felt a cold prickle trace the veins of his wrist. It was a sensation like ice water moving through a pipe, a tingling that started in the bone and bloomed...
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