The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-23 10:18:45 -

The glass bit into my thumb, a hot, wet tear of pain that I ignored because the alternative was to stop, and stopping meant Elara died. I was thirty-two, a glassblower in Aethelgard, and my hands were stained with the soot of a thousand failed attempts to cheat death. The city smelled of damp stone and sulfur, a cold, metallic draught that seeped through the floorboards of my workshop, chilling...

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