The Wistful Mirror
The hall smelled of wet wool and iron. Candles dripped. They burned low. They burned hot. They burned out. Miles stood in the center. He held his face. The glass was gone. Shards lay on the floor. They glittered. They cut the air. They cut the silence. The guests watched. They did not blink. They did not breathe. They waited. Miles looked at his hands. They were red. The blood was thick. It ran...
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