The Wistful Mirror
The great hall of Lord Vane’s manor smelled of roasted pork, stale ale, and the thick, cloying scent of myrrh that the priest had burned to sanctify the feast. You sat at the high table, your armor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the flickering candlelight, a second skin of steel that felt less like protection and more like a cage. The Lord himself, a man whose laughter was as sharp...
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