The Wistful Incense
The sealant on the royal decree was still warm, a tacky amber blob that smelled of resin and old blood, as I pressed the King’s insignia into the wax. My hand did not tremble, though the heat from the brazier bit into my knuckles, a sharp, familiar pain that grounded me in the flesh. We were celebrating the Divine Blend, the incense that had kept the plague at bay for three months, and the...
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