The Wistful Ashes
Act I Who else remembers the taste of the clay before it burns? Yonas Hersi asked the question aloud, his voice cutting through the low hum of the Ministry’s annual gala, a sound that was less music and more the friction of gears turning in a machine designed to grind time into dust. He stood at the center of the stone hall, a place carved from the badlands of the coast where the wind took the...
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