The Golden Mirror
The air in the scriptorium of the Silver Veil tasted of iron and old parchment, a metallic tang that Elias Thorne had learned to associate with the specific weight of his own guilt. He stood before the heavy oak desk, his hands resting on the spine of the codex, the leather worn smooth by decades of rigid, unyielding duty. Julian, his apprentice, sat slumped in the high-backed chair, his face...
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