The Wistful Incense
The ink on the King’s decree was not merely a smudge but a small, black wound in the center of the page, a mistake that had been made by my hand three days ago when the candle guttered and my elbow slipped, yet it remained there, uncorrected, because to correct it would be to admit that the document had been flawed at the moment of its creation, and in the damp, candlelit archive of the...
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