The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-22 10:48:59 -

The hall of the Guild of Weavers was thick with the scent of beeswax and stale ale, a humid warmth that clung to the skin like a second layer of cloth. Eleanor Fairchild stood by the long oak table, her fingers stained with indigo and the dark, viscous ink of her own making. In the center of the table lay the prize: a shard of mirror, no larger than a thumbnail, which hummed with a low,...

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