The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-22 00:20:31 -

The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain that smelled of wet ash and rotting stone. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the crumbling Abbey of St. Jude, his fingers white-knuckled around the leather-bound ledger. He was thirty-four, an archivist of modest reputation, and he wanted only to burn the book. Inside, the ink was still wet, the entries shifting and rearranging...

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