The Wistful Incense
The road to the monastery of Saint Jude’s was not so much a path as a scar in the earth, a long, winding gouge of red clay that cut through the dense, suffocating fog of the highland moors, and Elara walked it with the heavy, deliberate tread of a woman carrying a burden that was not on her back but woven into the very fibers of her soul, a burden that had grown so vast and intimate that it had...
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