The Wistful Incense
The year was 1342, and the dream was always the same: Elara’s mother, a face of wax and sorrow, dissolving into grey ash that settled on Elara’s own tongue. She woke with soot caked under her fingernails, a physical residue of the Wistful Incense, a curse that bound her to the court’s secrets as surely as iron binds a gate. Her hands shook, not from fear, but from the violent tremor of a woman...
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