The Wistful Ashes
The name Elias Thorne is called out by a voice that sounds like dry leaves skittering across concrete, and I turn to find Mara standing in the doorway of the archive, her face pale beneath the harsh fluorescent buzz, her fingers clutching a datapad so tightly the plastic creaks under the pressure. We are in the Ministry of Memory, a building of gray stone and glass that sits on the edge of the...
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