The Golden Mirror
You stand before the great oak doors of the Inquisitor’s Hall, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that seems to seep from the very mortar, and you realize with a cold, creeping certainty that you are not here to testify, but to be judged, for the crime of having seen too clearly the way the light fractured through the stained glass windows of...
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