The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-19 01:14:47 -

The banquet hall of the Obsidian Keep did not smell of roasting lamb or spiced wine, but of damp earth and the sweet, cloying rot of overripe plums, a scent that clung to the back of my throat like a persistent lie I could no longer swallow. I sat at the long table carved from a single block of black marble, my hands resting on the cool stone, watching the candlelight flicker across the faces...

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