The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-22 12:58:27 -

The frost was coming early this year. I could feel it in the joints of my fingers, a cold ache that matched the tension in my belly. Old Thomas sat at his desk, his quill scratching against parchment, the sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. He didn’t look up. "You’re leaving," he said. It wasn’t a question. "The elders have spoken. They say a woman’s eye is too soft to read the true...

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