The Wistful Mirror
The air in the Hall of Echoes tasted of ozone and old stone. Elias Thorne stood at the threshold, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial blade that weighed nothing but felt like an anchor dragging through deep water. He was a man of the perimeter, a keeper of the gate, yet today he had been summoned past the line. The summons had come not by word, but by the sudden, violent blooming of...
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