The Wistful Mirror
The fog in the Obsidian Library did not drift; it pressed against the stone walls like a living thing, damp and cold, smelling of rotting paper and old iron. Elias, twelve years old and no taller than the waist of the first shelf, stood before the central pedestal where the mirror lay, its surface a deep, swirling black that seemed to pull the light from the room into itself. He had been...
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