The Wistful Incense
The morning air in the cathedral of Saint Jude was thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint, cloying sweetness of beeswax candles that had been burning since the previous night’s vespers, a smell that seemed to settle into the very fibers of the wool cloak worn by Captain Elias Thorne as he stood rigidly at the foot of the high altar, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword that had...
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