The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-25 22:24:07 -

The Wistful Ashes

The market at Salt Gate one hundred and twenty-six hummed with the low, dry friction of wool against wool, a sound like distant static that coated the teeth in dust. I was the grader, Hovhannes Harutyunyan, and my hands were stained with the lanolin of ten thousand sheep, a fact that defined my worth more than my name did. The air smelled of sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of the tobacco...

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