The Golden Mirror
The shard of gold in Sir Aldric’s hand was warm, though the air in the chamber was bitter with the smell of damp wool and death. It was a sliver of the King’s mirror, a jagged tooth of polished metal that did not reflect his face but instead showed the bruise on his own knuckles, a mark from the last time he had struck a man who spoke treason. He held it up to the grey light filtering through...
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