The Wistful Witness
"You are dead, Thomas." The voice came from the mirror. It was not a reflection. It was a presence. Thomas stood in the center of the hall. The floor was cold. The air was thin. He held his sword. His hands shook. The steel was dull. The wood of the hilt was splintered. "Look at me," the voice said. Thomas looked. The face in the glass was his face. But it was wrong. The eyes were wide. The...
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