The Wistful Ashes
The ink bled into the porous paper of the ledger, a dark stain spreading like a bruise under the skin of the day. Elias Vane sat in the cramped office of the Department of Linguistic Preservation, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the silence pressing against the door. Outside, the city of Ashford groaned under the weight of its own industry; the air tasted of coal...
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