The Wistful Campus
The iron mirror had hung in the high chamber of the Ashworth estate for three centuries, its surface not silvered but forged from a black metal that drank the light. It was said to hold the reflection of the soul, unaltered by vanity or age. Eleanor Whitmore, the last of the shield-bearers, stood before it in the gray dawn, her breath misting in the cold air. She wore the ceremonial coat of her...
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