The Wistful Mirror
The bronze mirror hangs on the tent wall, its surface a dull, oxidized brown that reflects nothing but the dim candlelight. You stand before it, thirty-two years old, your armor stripped, your rank revoked. The accusation of cowardice is not written on the paper pinned to the command tent door; it is etched into the lines of your own face, visible only to you. You want to reclaim your honor, to...
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