The Wistful Incense
The feast was a suffocating thing, a golden cage of roasted meats and spiced wines that reeked of the old, unbroken order, and you sat at the edge of the long oak table with your hands folded in your lap, feeling the rough, frayed hem of your cloak rub against your knees like a constant, abrasive whisper, a physical reminder of the years you had spent chasing the shape of a man who was no...
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