The Wistful Mirror
The heat in the Grand Hall was a physical weight, pressing against Margaret Holloway’s temples, mixing with the scent of beeswax and the sour, metallic tang of old stone. "You are forty-two, Margaret," Archon Thorne said, his voice dry as the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light that cut through the high windows. "The Statute of Vitality is clear. The Mirror requires a young face. It feeds...
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