The Wistful Incense
Elias. The name was not spoken with warmth, nor with anger, but with the flat, administrative precision of a man checking an inventory list. Mayor Thorne stood in the doorway of the workshop, his shadow stretching long and thin across the floorboards, which were warped by years of humidity and the scent of dried myrrh. The light in the room was gray, the heavy fog of Oakhaven pressing against...
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