The Wistful Incense
The frost bit into the parchment as I set down my quill, the ink freezing before it could dry, a fitting omen for the coldness of the heart I carried into the court of Lord Malacor. I am Sir Aldous Vane, forty years of steel and silence in my bones, and I stand before the High Marshal’s seat with a singular, burning intent to capture the Wistful Incense, that elusive, supernatural bloom which...
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