The Wistful Atlas
The obsidian shard had not always been a weapon. In the beginning, it was a mirror, polished to a depth that reflected not faces, but the very fabric of the city’s soul. It sat upon the altar of the High Sanctum in the city of Oakhaven, a place where the cobblestones were worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims and the air tasted perpetually of incense and damp stone. The year was...
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