The Golden Mirror
The storm did not arrive; it descended, a sudden, violent stripping of the sky’s flesh. Rain lashed the windows of the manor, a ceaseless drumming that sounded less like weather and more like the frantic scratching of things seeking entry. Sir Thomas Vane sat in the armchair by the dying fire, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in a decade, though his knuckles...
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