The Golden Mirror
The fire did not start with a spark. It started with a silence, a sudden and terrible absence of heat that settled over the foundry floor of the city of Aethelgard like a shroud. The great bellows, which had breathed iron and air for a century, fell still. The molten gold, which was supposed to be the heart of the city’s soul, turned to a cold, dull sludge in the crucibles. It was a disaster of...
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