The Wistful Incense
The brazier consumed nothing, yet it demanded everything, a paradox that Thomas Vane had spent the last three nights trying to quantify in his ledger, counting the hours of his own dwindling vitality against the cold, blue persistence of the flame. He was twelve years old, a junior clerk in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and he woke with the specific, aching certainty that he must become the...
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