The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-20 08:02:17 -

The rain did not fall; it stood. It hung in the air like a veil of grey silk, thick and cold, pressing against the stone face of the Great Hall of Aethelgard. You stood at the threshold, your boots heavy with mud that had turned to clay, the water running down your trousers in long, dark rivulets. Inside, the air was still and smelled of beeswax, old parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of...

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