The Golden Mirror
You wake with the taste of copper and stale honey on your tongue. It is a thick, cloying sweetness that coats the roof of your mouth, refusing to dissolve, refusing to be swallowed. You are lying on a floor of cold stone, the air heavy with the scent of wet wool and burning tallow. This is not your office. This is not the fluorescent purgatory of the Ministry of Records where you have spent the...
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