The Wistful Mirror
The ink was black, but it looked grey in the failing light of the archive room, a dull smear on the parchment that had once held the weight of a kingdom. I held the quill in my left hand, my right hand wrapped around the hilt of a sword that had not seen battle in ten years. The sword was not for the enemy. It was for the paper. Or so I believed, until the end. The air in the Citadel of Saint...
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