The Distant Legend
The mirror is broken. That is the first thing you know. The glass lies in shards on the floor of the guardroom, a scattered constellation of silver and black. You do not remember dropping it. Your hands are shaking. They are always shaking now. The cold bites at your knuckles. The wood of the desk is slick. You wipe your hands on your tunic. The wool is coarse. It scratches. It reminds you of...
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