The Wistful Mirror
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old market square into a slick, black mirror, and it was in this damp, suffocating silence that Elias Thorne, the royal apothecary, stood before the High Council, his hands trembling not from the cold which seeped through his woolen coat like a living thing, but from the weight of the...
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