The Wistful Witness
The year was 1348, and the keep of Blackwood stood like a broken tooth against a bruised sky. Sir Aldric, forty years old and worn thin by vigil, stood alone in the central chamber. He held a chipped mirror, the last piece of their home, its glass fractured by a single, jagged line. In its surface, his face looked back at him, older than he felt, etched with the hollows of sleepless nights. He...
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