The Golden Mirror

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2026-08-19 09:51:50 -

The Golden Mirror

The fog sits heavy on the cobblestones of Ashwick. It is a thick, wet thing, smelling of rot and old iron. You stand before the gate of the Manor. The iron is black, rusted into a web of decay. Behind it, the house breathes. You can feel the vibration in the soles of your boots. You are a clerk. Your hands are stained with ink. Your spine is bent from years of hunching over ledgers. You belong...

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