The Wistful Incense
Elias Thorne’s fingers, stained with the particular grey dust of decaying vellum, worked the final knot of the hemp cord. He was securing the box that contained the Wistful Incense, a relic of the city’s founding that the Magistrate had ordered cataloged for the municipal archive. The smell of the room was thick, a cloying mixture of mildew, tallow, and the faint, sweet rot of old paper....
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