The Wistful Incense
The seal on the parchment was not merely broken; it was ground to dust, a fine grey powder that clung to the fingertips of anyone who dared touch it. "Look at that," said Silas, his voice low and flat, a sound that had lost its edge somewhere in the long corridors of the Keep. "The ink is still wet. But the wax is gone. Who has the strength to crush the seal before the ink dries? And who has...
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