The Wistful Mirror
Elias. The name struck you like a stone thrown through a window, sharp and cold in the sudden silence of the scriptorium. You stood before the Archivist, your hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer weight of the ink that had already seeped into the creases of your palms. The light in the room was thin, a pale grey sliver cutting through the high, barred windows, illuminating the dust...
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