The Golden Mirror
The iron taste of blood is the first thing you notice, sharp and metallic, flooding your mouth as the glass shatters against the floor. It is not a clean break. It is a violent implosion. The mirror lies in fragments across the Persian rug, a constellation of silvered shards reflecting the chaos of the room. You are still kneeling, your hands stained red, the cold air biting at the wet skin of...
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