The Golden Mirror
The blade was not a weapon in the way that iron is a weapon, but a mirror that had learned to cut, and it sang a low, vibrating note against the bone of the wrist where the skin had already thinned to the color of old parchment, and it was here, in the wet, red heat of the struggle, that Eleanor Ashworth realized with a clarity that felt like a cold splash of water on a fevered brow, that the...
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