The Wistful Mirror
The feast was not a celebration of joy. It was a display of weight. You sat at the long oak table in the Great Hall of the Ashworth Academy, your hands resting flat on the polished wood. The surface was cold. It absorbed the heat from your palms. Around you, the other scholars sat. They were men of ink and iron. Their faces were pale, etched with the lines of long nights spent in the library....
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