The Wistful Incense
"Is it not the case," said the Overseer, his voice a dry leaf skittering across the polished floor of the Hall of Measures, "that the scent is the only currency that does not rot, that it remains even when the vessel is shattered and the hand that held it is withered? You, Elias, you who have spent a lifetime grinding stones until your fingers bled into the mortar, you who believe that you can...
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