The Wistful Mirror
The blade hung in the air, trembling with the effort of the last swing. Sir Kaelen’s arm burned, a dull ache radiating from the shoulder to the fingertips, where the leather grip had worn thin against his calluses. In the center of the hall, the great oak mirror stood untouched, its surface rippling like the surface of a stagnant pond. It did not shatter. It did not crack. It simply reflected...
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