The Wistful Mirror
The iron gate groaned open with a sound like a dying beast, and the smell of wet rot and old blood hit the air before the first blow landed, a thick, cloying fog that tasted of copper and despair. Silas Vane did not flinch, nor did he raise the rusted pike he had dragged from the mud of the courtyard, for he knew that the man standing on the other side of the threshold, Lord Alaric, did not...
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