The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-17 22:29:11 -

The ink was still wet when the bell rang. It was not a church bell. It was the heavy, iron tongue of the Guild Hall, shaking the dust from the rafters of the apothecary shop. Silas Vane looked up from his desk. His hands were stained black to the wrist. He had been writing. He had been writing for three days. He had not slept. He had not eaten. He had only written. The paper on his desk was a...

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