And then, right on the heels of that icy shock, the heart of the fragrance bloomed.
As the alcohol vanished into the humid dusk air, the deep, intoxicating soul of aged agarwood, warm white sandalwood, and crushed golden osmanthus unfurled between the brick walls. Because there wasn't a single drop of heavy pig lard or sesame oil trapping the scent, it didn't smell thick, cloying, or cheap. It smelled weightless. Haunting. Like standing beneath a moonlit osmanthus tree in an imperial garden just after the first autumn snow, catching the elusive scent of a high-born immortal's robes passing in the dark.
One of the thugs by the wall involuntarily let out a low, dazed groan, her grip loosening on her wooden cudgel as she leaned her head forward to suck in another greedy breath of the air.
