The Wistful Incense
The gas lamps in the sub-basement of the National Archive hissed with a rhythmic, metallic breath, illuminating the dust motes that danced like suspended ash. Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old and trembling with a specific, chemical hunger, held the vial of Wistful Incense to his nose. He inhaled. The scent was not floral, as the rumors suggested, but sharp, metallic, and cold, a flavor that...
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