The Wistful Incense
The air in the chapel was thick with the scent of stale myrrh and the metallic tang of old blood, a perfume that clung to the stone walls like a jealous ghost. You stood there, your hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the silver dagger resting in your palm, its handle worn smooth by the grip of those who had come before you, each of them believing they were purifying the...
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