The Wistful Incense
The cellar smelled of damp earth and dried rose petals, a scent that had clung to Elias Thorne’s clothes for twenty years until it was indistinguishable from his own skin. He stood before the stone mortar, his hands trembling not from age, but from the specific, metallic taste of blood on his tongue. The Wistful Incense was not a recipe found in any book of trade; it was a rumor whispered by...
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