The Wistful Incense
The air in the village of Oakhaven did not merely smell of damp earth and rotting leaves; it carried the heavy, cloying sweetness of the medicinal herbs that grew in the cracks of the stone walls, a scent that clung to the wool of every garment and settled into the pores of the skin like a second, darker soul. Young Arthur Pendelton, whose eyes were the pale, washed-out gray of a winter sky,...
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