The Wistful Incense
Silas Thorne was a man of the law, and the law in Oakhaven was a thing of stone and silence, broken only by the occasional, wistful drift of incense smoke that the dead released when a grave injustice lay unresolved. For twenty years, Silas had worn the badge, his hands roughened by the leather of his belt and the cold iron of the cells he kept, and for three of those years, he had carried the...
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