The Wistful Mirror
The hall smelled of rendered fat and old wine. It was a thick, cloying scent that clung to the stone walls and the heavy velvet drapes. The air was still. No one moved. The only sound was the crackle of the fire, a slow, dying pulse in the hearth. Elara stood at the edge of the table. She wore a dress of deep indigo. The fabric was stiff. It brushed against her legs with every small step. She...
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