The Distant Whispers
The sky tore open with a sound like tearing silk. It was not thunder. Thunder is heavy, dull, a dull thud in the chest. This was sharp. This was the sound of reality being pulled apart at the seams. You stood on the wet cobblestones of the courtyard, your uniform soaking through, the rain cold and biting. In your hand, you held the mirror. It was a small thing, framed in tarnished silver, a...
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