The Wistful Incense
The incense smoke did not rise, but fell, a heavy grey curtain that pooled upon the stone floor of the keep’s upper chamber, defying the natural law of heat and buoyancy with the quiet, insolent certainty of a thing that knows it is not bound by the world it inhabits. Thomas Bradshaw, a man whose hands had once trembled only with the cold bite of the winter wind and the weight of a man’s life...
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