The Wistful Mirror
The parchment lay on the oak table, its edges yellowed and brittle, the ink of the seal still dark and wet where it had been pressed only moments before. Sir Elias Thorne stared at the document, his eyes burning from the strain of the candlelight, the wax a cold, heavy weight against the wood. It was a summons, or perhaps a sentence, for the distinction between the two had blurred in the...
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