The Wistful Saga
Chapter One Salt burns when the wind is wrong. I know this because I have carried it on my back since I was twelve, and because the air in the chariot maker’s yard tastes of copper and old smoke. The lanterns hiss as the wicks catch, a dry, electric sound that cuts through the damp November warmth. It is a warm spell, unsettling, the kind that makes the soil soft and the dogs restless. I am...
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