The Wistful Incense
I counted the coins in my palm, three times over, until the edges bit into my skin. Twelve silver marks. Not enough for the rent, not enough for the bread, not enough for the silence in the room where Mara sat, staring at the wall. The fog in Vael was thick that morning, a grey wool that choked the streets and smelled of wet ash and old pennies. I wiped my hands on my trousers and looked at the...
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