The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-23 03:24:52 -

"Pay up, or the roof goes." The voice belonged to Vane’s steward, a man named Crag who smelled of wet wool and iron. He stood in the doorway of my workshop, blocking the only light that came from the grey December sky. I looked at him. I looked at the pile of dried mugwort and crushed sandalwood on the workbench. The ledger lay open on the table, its pages yellowed and stiff. I wrote the date...

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