The Wistful Ashes
The ledger held three hundred and twelve lines, each one a debt owed to the Ashen Court, and you counted them with the tip of your quill, the nib dragging a thin, dry groove through the parchment. Your hand shook, not from cold, but from the weight of the ink pot sitting on the desk, heavy as a stone, black as the soil in the courtyard where the executions were held. You were Elias, thirty-two...
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