The Wistful Incense
The clay pipe in Aldric’s hand was cracked down the middle, leaking a thin, sweet-smelling vapor that smelled of burnt almonds and old blood. He stood before the northern boundary stones, the ones that marked the limit of the King’s estate, and watched the smoke curl into the grey, freezing air. The stones were not broken by battering rams or the sheer force of an invading army; they had been...
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