The Wistful Incense
Act I The road to the High Court was a ribbon of dust that the wind did not care to clean. Ramon Jarama walked it with the heavy, measured steps of a man who had spent forty years bending over a brazier, his hands stained the color of dried blood. He carried a small leather pouch against his chest, where the cold weight of an oracle bone sat, its cracks read and reread until the meaning had...
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