The Wistful Mirror
The banquet hall of the Ironwood Guild was not merely a room, but a cavern of accumulated breath and stale wine, where the air hung thick with the scent of roasting venison and the heavy, metallic tang of ambition, a place where men like Silas Vane, a craftsman whose hands were mapped with the white scars of a thousand minor disasters, sat at the periphery of the long oak table and watched the...
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