The Wistful Mirror
The letter arrived in a seal of black wax, smelling faintly of sulfur and old stone. It was not written in ink, but etched into the parchment with a stylus so fine it had pierced the skin of the page, leaving a topographical map of indentations that caught the grey light of the tower room. Arthur Vane read it standing, his back against the cold granite, his hands trembling not from fear but...
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