The Wistful Incense
The letter lay on the desk, its seal broken, the ink faded to a bruised purple that matched the light bleeding through the scriptorium’s high, narrow window. Brother Elias read it for the third time, his eyes tracing the cramped, frantic script of Thomas Bradshaw, a man who had been dead for three years, yet whose words felt as fresh and sharp as a blade pressed against the throat. It was not a...
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