The Wistful Incense
The cold did not come from the window, but from within Elias Thorne’s own chest, a draft so sharp it seemed to have weight and intention, and it was this unnatural chill that had shattered the first pane of glass in the magistrate’s office three days prior. Elias sat at the oak desk, his fingers trembling not from age, but from the effort of keeping his hands still, for he knew with a terrible,...
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