The Wistful Incense
The high altar of the Abbey of St. Jude was not merely a place of worship, but a fortress of silence, a place where the air tasted of cold stone and the heavy, cloying sweetness of stale incense. You stand there, your hands bound not by rope, but by the rigid expectation of your order, the white wool of your tunic stark against the shadows that cling to the vaulted ceiling. Before you, on the...
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