The Wistful Mirror
The oak tree stood in the center of the courtyard, its roots drinking deep from the damp earth. It was old. Older than the castle walls that encircled it. Older than the men who marched beneath its boughs. Captain Elias Thorne stood before it, his hand resting on the rough, gray bark. He did not look up. He knew the shape of its crown by heart. He knew the way the leaves turned silver in the...
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