The Faded Paradox
The dream is always the same: the weight of the obsidian mirror in your hands, the cold, heavy pull of the stone, and then the sudden, violent shattering that sends black shards flying like a flock of starlings against the white light of the waking world. You open your eyes in the grey predawn of your flat in Bloomsbury, the silence of the room pressing against your eardrums, and you check the...
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