The Wistful Mirror
The fire began not with a spark, but with a scent of ozone and burnt silk that hung in the air of the great hall like a curse. You stood before the glass, the surface shimmering with an unnatural heat, your reflection rippling not with movement, but with a slow, viscous decay. The tapestry behind you, woven with the lineage of the Ashworth clan, was already curling at the edges, the threads...
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