The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-22 13:28:59 -

The stone lintel of the Kestrel’s Rest fort was cold, slick with the perpetual damp of the borderlands, and Elias Thorne, whose hands had begun to tremble with the palsy of age, pressed his thumb against the rough granite until the skin bled, trying to steady himself against the wind that howled through the broken archways. He was fifty-two, a retired warden whose lungs had begun to rattle like...

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