The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-21 19:46:45 -

The iron clasp of my breastplate was cold against the dawn chill, a weight that had long since ceased to be merely metal and had become an extension of my own ribs. I walked through the corridors of the High Keep, where the stone was worn smooth by centuries of footsteps that had never wavered in their purpose. The air smelled of damp mortar and old blood, a scent that had permeated the weave...

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