The Wistful Mirror
The iron gates shuddered. Then they broke. You are standing in the center of the Great Hall, and the sound is not a crash but a tearing, like the ripping of old silk. Dust falls from the vaulted ceiling, settling on your robes, on the map of the Kingdom of Aethelgard spread before you, on the quill that hangs limp in your hand. You are the Keeper of the Archives. You are the scholar who has...
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