The Wistful Witness
The hand was gone. Not severed. Not broken. Simply absent. Elias stood before the mirror in the antechamber. The glass was old. It did not lie. It showed a face of pale wax and hollow cheeks. It showed a man of forty who looked sixty. It showed two empty wrists where hands should have been. He had lost them in the dream. Or perhaps in the waking. The line had blurred. He was the Court Seer. The...
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