The Wistful Incense
The fog that rolled into the city of Harrow’s Gate was not merely a meteorological event but a physical weight, a gray, damp blanket that smothered the brick facades of the old textile district and settled into the pores of the skin of anyone foolish enough to step outside without a coat, and in this suffocating silence, Elias Thorne sat in the center of his workshop, a room that had once...
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