The Wistful Incense
The ledger lay open on the warden’s desk, its pages swollen with damp, the ink of the final entry still wet and black as a bruise. Elias Thorne held the pen, his hand trembling not from fear but from the sheer, grinding weight of the forty years he had spent maintaining the Hollow, a debt to the Iron Guild that could only be settled by the signature of a man who no longer existed. The room was...
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