The Wistful Ashes
The wind did not howl; it scraped, a dry, metallic sound against the frozen iron of the border fence. Elias Thorne stood with his back to the gate, his hands wrapped around a small, lead-lined box that hummed with a low, subsonic vibration. Beside him, Silas Vane gripped his shoulder, his knuckles white, his breath pluming in the bitter air. "Burn it, Elias," Silas said. His voice was rough,...
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