The Wistful Mirror
The parchment lay upon the oak table, its edges brittle as dried leaves, bearing the seal of the High Court. It was a simple mark, a circle bisected by a vertical line, but to Elias Thorne, it felt like a brand seared into his skin. He had served the Kingdom of Aethelgard for forty years. Forty years of quiet diligence, of balancing ledgers in the damp cold of the northern keep, of sweeping the...
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