The Golden Mirror
The hall smells of beeswax and old iron. You stand in the center of the room, a guest who does not belong, a stranger in a house of stone and shadow. The candlelight flickers, casting long, trembling reflections against the walls. They call you here to witness the end. Or so you believe. The air is thick. It presses against your skin like damp wool. You are an exile, a man without a country,...
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