The Wistful Incense

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 22:10:54 -

The mortar was stone, cold and rough against the side of your jaw as you ground the last of the wistful incense, the powder turning a bruised purple that smelled of wet pennies and old regret. You were thirty-two years old, and your hands, usually steady enough to distill mercury from salt, trembled with a fatigue that sleep had not cured. The cellar of the Duke’s palace was damp, the air thick...

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