The Wistful Mirror
The ledger held four hundred and twelve names. You counted them again, the ink still wet on the final entry, the smell of gall and iron sharp in the cold air. The High Court of Aethelgard did not sleep, and neither did the Mirror of Verdicts, which stood in the corner of the scribe’s room like a slab of polished obsidian, reflecting the flickering candlelight and your own hunched back. You...
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