The Wistful Incense
"Did you see the new inscription on the south pillar?" Thomas Bradshaw didn’t look up from the ledger he was balancing, his quill scratching a dry, rhythmic screech against the parchment that sounded, in the hushed, dust-mote-filled air of the Archive, like the grinding of tectonic plates slowly shifting beneath the earth’s crust. He was a man who had worn his years like a loose coat, the...
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