The Golden Mirror
The gold-leafed shard sat in Arthur Vane’s palm, cold and sharp as a winter morning, its edge biting into the flesh of his thumb. He turned it over, watching the light catch the flaking leaf, before sliding it into the evidence bag. Outside the window of the archive room, the mist of Oakhaven pressed against the glass, a thick, grey wool that had not lifted for three days. Arthur was...
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