The Wistful Ashes
"You are not in the Registry," the Inquisitor said, his voice flat as a stone dropped into deep water, "and therefore you do not exist." I The hall smelled of roasted duck and the metallic tang of fear, a combination that sat heavy in Greta Hoffmann’s throat as she stood before the high table. It was a warm spell in November, the kind that unsettled the alpine farms and made the black soil...
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