The Golden Mirror
The dream came to Silas Vane not as a vision of light, but as a weight in the chest, a dull, rhythmic thumping that mimicked the beating of a heart long since stopped. He stood in the center of the Great Hall of the Iron Palace, a place that existed in the foggy margins of his memory and the sharp, cold reality of his present confinement. The floor was made of polished obsidian, black as the...
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