The Wistful Mirror
The note was pinned to the door with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and soft as old skin. It bore the seal of the Duke, a black stag impaled on a white field, and the ink was still wet, glistening in the dim light of the workshop. You read it twice, your eyes sliding over the words as if they were written in a language you had once known but had since forgotten. The demand was simple: the...
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