The Wistful Incense
The banquet hall of St. Aldric’s University smelled of roasted lamb and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to seep into the pores of every scholar present. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers wrapped tightly around a chalice of dark red wine that trembled slightly in his hand. He was a man of the mind, a keeper of old texts and newer heresies, and...
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