The Wistful Ashes
Chapter One I remember the salt pan better than I remember her face, though it was the first real dark of autumn when I last saw her. The tide was heard through the walls of the smithy, a low, wet grinding that sounded like bone on stone. Elara sat on the bench, her skin the color of river clay, and I held her hand. It was dry. The High Warden, a man named Vane, stood by the door. He did not...
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