The Wistful Mirror
The feast in the great hall of the manor was a cacophony of clinking silver and roaring fire, yet you sat at the far end of the long oak table, feeling the weight of the silence that lived inside your chest. You were only twelve years old, small for your age, with hair the color of dried wheat and eyes that had learned to look away before anyone could see the fear in them. Your mother, Lady...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews