The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-22 11:14:32 -

The ash falls like grey snow, settling in the crevices of your armor and coating the lips of the man strapped to your back. You are Elias, thirty-two, and your legs burn with the phantom ache of a march that has lasted three days, though the clock says only two have passed since you crossed the river. Your father, Thomas, is a dead weight of fever and rot, his skin slick with sweat that smells...

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