The Golden Mirror
The blade of the short sword scraped against the iron rim of the mirror’s frame, a sound like a fingernail dragged across a chalkboard, vibrating up the hilt into Elias Thorne’s palm. He was forty-two years old, and his hands, once steady enough to split a hair with a knife, now trembled with a fatigue that sleep could not cure. The tower was cold, the stone weeping with dampness that smelled...
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