The Wistful Mirror
The banquet hall of the Bureau of Historical Verification smelled of roasted lamb, stale rosewater, and the metallic tang of ambition. Candles flickered in crystal sconces, casting long, trembling shadows across the marble floor where the senior archivists sat in a semi-circle, their faces illuminated by the warm, deceptive light of consensus. In the center of the room, on a velvet-draped...
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