The Golden Scar
You wake in the dark. The air is thick, metallic, tasting of ozone and old iron. Your body is a map of scars, each one a coordinate in a geography you have tried to forget. You are in the Hall of Mirrors. Or what the court calls it. It is a vast, circular chamber lined with polished obsidian. The floor is cold stone. You are alone. The mirror before you is cracked. A web of fractures spreads...
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