The Golden Mirror
The wine is red as a fresh wound, and it runs down the stem of the crystal glass in a slow, viscous ribbon that catches the chandelier light. You hold the glass with both hands, your knuckles white, the warmth of the liquid seeping into your skin like a fever. Around you, the great hall of the Whitmore estate hums with the low, static buzz of three hundred voices, a sound that has begun to...
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