The Golden Mirror
The air in the High Court of the Silver Spire tastes of copper and old dust, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat as you press your ear against the cold stone of the vault door, listening for the rhythmic thud of the guard’s boots above. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist whose hands are stained with ink and whose name is currently synonymous with...
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