The Wistful Mirror
The broth was thick and dark, the color of dried blood, bubbling in the cast-iron pot that sat upon the stove in the center of the grand dining hall. I held the ladle, my hands trembling not from the heat but from the weight of the accusation that had been leveled against me an hour prior. Lord Ashworth, the Duke of Halloway, stood at the head of the long mahogany table, his face a mask of...
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