The Wistful Incense
The road into the valley of Osh was not a road at all, but a scar in the earth, carved by centuries of rain and the slow, grinding weight of carts. It wound through a landscape that had forgotten the sun, where the trees grew so thick and twisted that their branches met overhead, forming a cathedral of bark and shadow. Margaret Holloway walked it with a gait that had become second nature, her...
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