The Wistful Incense
The dream always began with the smell of wet stone and old blood. Arthur Penhaligon lay on the cold floor of the infirmary, his body a map of bruises and aching joints, but his mind was elsewhere. It was drifting back to the night he had been summoned to the High Court, a place that smelled of lavender and judgment. He had been the Captain of the Guard, a man whose word was law within the city...
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