The Wistful Mirror
The mortar is too wet, Silas, and you know it. Lord Vane’s voice cuts through the damp air of the great hall, sharp as a blade drawn from a scabbard. You stand before the Wistful Mirror, that slab of polished obsidian set into the stone wall, and your hand hovers over the trowel. The mortar is indeed too wet, a grey slurry that will slump before it sets, but Vane does not care for structural...
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