The Golden Mirror
Elias Thorne’s hands were trembling, not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor of the scriptorium, but from the specific, grinding dread of a man who knows his execution date has been moved up to the next dawn. He was wiping a smudge of ink from the spine of a ledger, his movements precise and mechanical, a ritual of containment that had failed him for three nights running. In his...
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