I look back now from the vantage of a life already spent, remembering the weight of the cobbler’s last that sat on my workbench, a child-size mold for a shoe that would never be made, as I stood in the center of the great hall where the air smelled of burnt sugar and old rot. I was forty-two, my hands trembling not from age but from the desperate need to secure the royal seal for my late husband’s estate before the midnight deadline, a deadline that felt less like time and more like a physical crushing of the chest. The Silent Mirror, a slab of polished obsidian that reflected not my face but the true, aging ruin of my soul, whispered of my impending death while the court feasted on roasted duck and ignored the silence between us. My aide, a man whose loyalty was a foil to my ambition, told me the King had signed the decree in my favor, but the seal was missing, a crisis of trust that forced me to investigate the palace archives alone, where I discovered the seal was not lost but held by the King’s own shadow, a manifestation of his guilt that stretched across the floor like a stain. I had believed the seal was a bureaucratic object, a piece of wax and paper, but it was a magical anchor, and to retrieve it, I had to offer a memory of my husband’s love, a cost I was unwilling to pay, leading me to attempt a clever deception to bypass the shadow’s guard. The deception failed spectacularly when the shadow mimicked my movements, trapping me in a loop of time where the banquet repeated, and I saw the Silent Mirror showing not my age, but the face of my husband, who died not of illness but of my own neglect during our years of political maneuvering. I had been so busy securing the estate, so busy with the lace-making that blinded me to the human cost, that I had let him die of loneliness while I fought for a piece of land I could not keep. The fire had taken the barn and the receipts, the wells had failed in that summer of drought, and now I stood in the loop, the borrowed dress I wore feeling less like fabric and more like a shroud, as the sounds of the church, the mosque, and the temple overlapped in a cacophony that made my teeth ache. I realized then that my pursuit of power was a flight from grief, a frantic attempt to outrun the fact that I had loved him with an instinctual, primal force that I had suffocated under layers of duty and debt. I stopped fighting the shadow and instead embraced the pain of the memory, offering it freely, which caused the shadow to dissolve and the seal to materialize in my hand, heavy and cold as a stone from the riverbed. The banquet ended, the court dispersed, and I held the seal, but the cost was total; I had lost the instinctual love that defined me, leaving me hollow, and the Silent Mirror now reflected only a void, confirming my spiritual death. I walked out onto the road, the air heavy with damp earth and decay, the light of the lamps dimming as the night deepened, and I placed the heavy, cold seal into the King’s hand, my face blank and serene, while the obsidian mirror behind me cracked down the center, revealing not a reflection, but the empty, dark space where my soul used to be. The Ironminster stub of sealing wax lay on the table at one hundred and nine of Stonecutter Alley, a small, useless thing, just as I was.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​⁠⁠⁠​⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‍​‍​​‍⁠‍‌⁠​‌‍‍​​‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​⁠⁠⁠​⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‍​‍​​‍⁠‍‌⁠​‌‍‍​​‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​⁠⁠⁠​⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‍​‍​​‍⁠‍‌⁠​‌‍‍​​‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​⁠⁠⁠​⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‍​‍​​‍⁠‍‌⁠​‌‍‍​​‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍​‍​⁠‍​‌‌‌‌⁠⁠‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​​⁠⁠⁠​⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‌‍​‍​​‍⁠‍‌⁠​‌‍‍​​