The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-20 02:20:09 -

The feast is a blur of gold leaf and roasted swan, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and melting tallow. You sit at the far end of the long oak table, a place of honor that feels less like a throne and more like a trap. Before you lies a bowl of porridge, thick and warm, studded with dried berries that have softened into dark, sweet pulps. It is the only thing on the table that looks...

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