The Wistful Incense
The ink is dry, Thomas. You know the rules of the Inquisition. If the blot spreads, the lie is confirmed. If it holds, the truth is sealed. I watched the drop hit the parchment, a dark bead trembling on the vellum, waiting for the verdict. It did not spread. It sat there, a perfect black circle, mocking me. I am Thomas Bradshaw, Inquisitor of the Third Circle, and in the damp cell beneath the...
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