The Wistful Incense
The dream began with the taste of iron. It coated the back of Aldous’s tongue, a metallic tang that tasted of old pennies and rusted gates. He stood in the courtyard of the Citadel, a place that existed only in the marrow of his mind, yet felt more solid than the stone walls of his waking life. The air was thick, saturated with the scent of myrrh and decay. This was the Realm of the Just, a...
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