The Wistful Ashes
The blue flame did not roar; it whispered, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone, and Elias Thorne watched the pages of the grimoire curl inward without ever truly turning to ash, the ink bleeding into the fire rather than vaporizing. He had spent three days in the cellar, weeping over Mara’s body, her throat a red ribbon against the pale linen of her nightgown, and now, in the small...
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