The Wistful Incense
The feast in the great hall of Blackwood Manor was a cacophony of silver and laughter, a brittle shell of civility that could not mask the rot spreading through the Lord’s chambers, and you, Elias Thorne, sat at the edge of the table with your hands clenched so tightly beneath the linen napkin that your knuckles had turned the color of bone, watching the candlelight dance on the gold rims of...
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