The Wistful Incense
The seal was red. It sat on the desk. It was a wax impression. The shape was a serpent. It ate its tail. I was twelve. I wore a grey tunic. The room was cold. Stone walls. High ceilings. A single window. Rain hit the glass. I looked at the seal. My name was Thomas. I was the King’s scribe. No. I was the boy who cleaned the ink. I watched the Lord. Lord Ashworth. He held the quill. His hand was...
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