The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-23 08:22:25 -

Three hundred and twelve shards. That was the count in the iron bowl. Elian had counted them three times, his fingers stained black with dust and blood, the number etched into the wet stone of the cellar floor. The obsidian mirror of Lord Vane lay in pieces, a jagged constellation of dark glass that reflected nothing but the damp, rotting air of the undercroft. Elian was twelve, and his hands...

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