The Wistful Mirror
The iron chest sits in the center of the high-ceilinged hall, its hinges rusted into a permanent, weeping arch, and you stand before it with the stillness of a man who has forgotten how to breathe. The air in the estate of Lord Ashworth is thick with the scent of damp wool and old parchment, a smell that has settled into the very grain of the oak floorboards, pressing against your skin like a...
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