The Wistful Incense
The frost lay thick upon the moor in the year of our Lord 1342, a white shroud that muffled the sounds of the dying world while the air itself seemed to vibrate with the heavy, cloying scent of wistful incense. Elias, a herbalist whose hands had once moved with the precision of a surgeon but now trembled with a palsy born of hunger and cold, walked the frozen heath in search of the black root...
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