The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-25 05:21:06 -

The count was precise: one thousand, four hundred and twelve stitches remaining. I sat in the cold of the cellar, the air thick with the damp smell of wool and old stone, and I worked. The needle slipped in and out, a thin, bright line against the dark fabric. The Baron’s debt was not just money; it was a weight that sat on my chest, pressing the breath out of me before I could draw it in. He...

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