The Golden Mirror
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a dense, grey curtain that smelled of wet wool and old iron, sealing the village of Harrowgate against the world beyond the mist-shrouded hills. I stood in the center of the square, the cobblestones slick and black beneath my boots, staring up at the Great Hall, a structure of such imposing, terrible grandeur that it seemed to swallow the...
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