The Wistful Incense
The ash fell like snow that had forgotten how to melt, settling in the hollows of Elias Thorne’s collar and on the cracked leather of his satchel. It was not ash from a fire, but from the world itself, a fine, gray powder that tasted of copper and old regrets on the tongue. He had walked for three days through the Whispering Barrens, a stretch of dead land where the wind did not blow but...
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