The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-21 17:43:19 -

The iron gate groaned. Not with rust. With weight. With the memory of ten thousand locks forced open by ten thousand hands that looked exactly like his. Malcolm stood before it. His armor was cold. The rain on his visor blurred the world into a smear of grey and black. He held the key. It was small. It was warm. It burned his palm like a coal. He had crossed the moor. He had crossed the river....

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