The Wistful Incense
The gavel struck the mahogany block with a finality that echoed in the hollows of the great hall, a sound like a bone breaking under the weight of a slow, inevitable crush. Margaret Holloway sat at the center of the long table, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the knuckles white as the porcelain cups that sat untouched before the judges. The air in the Hall of Standards was thick with the...
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