The Wistful Incense
The candle on the table had burned down to a stub, and you counted the wax drips falling onto the silver plate. One, two, three, four. The Midsummer Feast was in full swing, the hall filled with the smell of roasted lamb and the sweat of three hundred nobles, but your eyes were fixed on the small, blue flame of the Wistful Incense resting in its ceramic holder on the Chancellor’s desk. You were...
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