The Wistful Mirror
The banquet at the Hall of Echoes was a cacophony of clinking silver and forced laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted venison and the metallic tang of the fog that had been rolling in from the marshes for three days straight. You stood at the edge of the room, Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and already feeling ancient, watching the shadows stretch across the floorboards like...
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