The Golden Mirror
The city of Oakhaven does not sleep, but it breathes with a slow, heavy rhythm, the exhalation of iron and steam and the damp, rotting scent of the river mud that clings to the cobblestones like a persistent, dark stain upon the soul. You stand in the shadow of the Magistrate’s high window, where the light is thin and cold, filtering through the grime of the panes to illuminate only the dust...
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