The Wistful Incense
The air in the Ministry of Eternal Records was not merely stale, but heavy with the dust of centuries, a particulate matter that settled in the creases of Elias Thorne’s collar and whispered against the skin of his face like the breath of ghosts who had forgotten their own names. He sat at a desk that had been carved from a single, mournful block of oak in the reign of a king who had long since...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews