The Wistful Mirror
The blade of the chalice was already singing, a high, thin note that cut through the humid air of the cathedral nave, vibrating in the teeth of every soul present. Elara stood at the center of the mosaic floor, the stone cold and damp beneath her bare feet, and felt the weight of the glass object in her hands not as a burden, but as a second heart, beating in a rhythm that did not match her...
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