The Golden Mirror
The mud in the courtyard was thick as porridge, sucking at Elias’s boots with every step. He clutched the vial of golden syrup in his left hand, his knuckles white, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The smell of rot and iron hung heavy in the air, a scent that seemed to coat the back of his throat. He was a clerk, a man of ledgers and quiet rooms, not a man of war, yet here he stood...
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