The Golden Mirror
The candlelight in the Inquisition’s lower archives does not illuminate so much as it consumes, eating the shadows in the corners of the room until only the dust and the damp smell of rotting vellum remain. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and your hands tremble not from the chill that seeps through the stone floor but from the hollow, gnawing ache of a stomach that has known no meat...
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