The Wistful Mirror
The seal is yours, if you can take it from his hand. Vane’s voice was low, cutting through the hum of the torches in the antechamber. Sir Kaelen stood before the King’s throne, his left hand trembling so violently it looked like a separate creature attached to his wrist. He was forty-two, but the border wars had carved him down to bone and scar tissue. He wanted the seal. He needed it to prove...
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