The Wistful Incense
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening under the candlelight like a fresh wound. Elias Thorne held the document steady, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the words he had read. Across the table, Julian, his clerk of five years, did not look up from his own writing. The silence between them was thick, filled only by the scratch of the quill and the...
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