The Wistful Incense
You are grinding the resin in the mortar, the pestle heavy in your hand, the smell sharp and acrid like burnt hair. The light in the scriptorium is failing, the oil lamps flickering against the stone walls as the shadows lengthen. You are Elias. You are forty-two. You are a scribe in Oria, and you are trying to save your sister, Mara, who is dying of a cough that shakes her ribs. The rule is...
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