The Wistful Ashes
The ash fell in a thick, grey snow that coated the tongue with the taste of old bones and burnt iron, a silence so heavy it seemed to press down on the ribs of the men walking through the white-wasted fields of the north. Elias Thorne, a sergeant of the King’s Guard whose face was a map of old scars and newer doubts, walked with a crate strapped to his back that hummed with a low, rhythmic...
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