The Wistful Incense
The blade in my hand was slick with sweat and something darker, something that smelled of old copper and wet earth, and I was not fighting a monster, I was fighting the shadow of my own father, who had not died but had instead dissolved into the very stones of the manor, and I had to cut him out before the sun rose and turned him back into a lie. The air in the great hall was thick, not with...
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