The Wistful Incense
The storm broke over the Keep of St. Jude’s not with thunder, but with a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing against the stone. Sir Elias Thorne stood on the battlements, his hands resting on the cold, wet parapet, watching the rain lash the valley below. He was a man carved from the same granite as the fortress, his face a landscape of deep furrows and hardened lines,...
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