The Wistful Mirror
The journey began not with a departure from the hearth, but with a severance from the self, a quiet tearing of the fabric that bound the boy to his own reflection. It was the age of the high passes, where the wind carried the scent of wet stone and ancient frost, and the kingdom of the North was a place of grey peaks and silent, watching forests. Here, in the village of Oakhaven, which clung to...
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