The Wistful Incense
The parchment lay on the stone table, its edges curling from the damp. It was a decree, stamped with the black seal of the Ministry of Internal Order, dated for the current hour. Elias Thorne read it once, then a second time, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the mortar and pestle. The ink was fresh, the command absolute: all unauthorized mediums were to be purged within sixty...
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