The Golden Mirror
The candlelight in the antechamber was so dim that it seemed to breathe, a faint, rhythmic pulse of amber against the dark stone walls, and I sat there with my hands folded in my lap, watching the wax drip down the brass holder like a slow, golden tear, thinking about how strange it is to be a prisoner of one’s own reflection. My name is Elara, though I suspect that in the records of the court,...
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