The Wistful Mirror
The ink is drying too fast, Vane. You know how the vellum drinks it up. I looked down at the parchment, the surface slick and black, but the words were fading into the grain of the skin. Lord Vane stood in the doorway of my cell, his hand still raised from the slam that had rattled the stone walls. He was a large man, built like the oxen in the lower courtyard, with hands that looked too heavy...
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