The Golden Mirror
The dream begins not with light, but with the sensation of being ground down to dust. You are the mirror. You are the glass. You are the silvered surface of a vanity in a room that smells of beeswax and old blood. In the reflection, you see not your own face, but the face of the man who broke you. He stands in the doorway, his armor dented, his eyes hollowed out by a grief so profound it has...
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