The Wistful Skyline

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2026-08-24 14:12:56 -

The salted pork had turned to ash by the time the sun cleared the jagged teeth of the northern ridge, a fine, grey powder that slipped through my fingers like wet sand, leaving no grease on my skin, no salt on my tongue, only a cold, dry emptiness that tasted of iron and old graves. I stood in the center of the warden’s post, a stone hut that smelled of damp wool and unwashed men, and I watched...

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