The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-17 13:03:17 -

The iron bowl lay on the stone table, its surface pitted by rust and time. It was not a vessel for soup, nor for grain. It held only the memory of the fire that had once consumed the hall, a hollow space where the scent of charred oak still clung to the cold metal. Thomas Bradshaw stood before it, his hands resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in three years. The room was...

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