The Wistful Mirror
You dream of a hall where the air is thick with the static charge of a thousand unspoken apologies, and in the center of this sterile, white-tiled void stands a mirror that does not reflect your face but instead displays the scrolling, red text of your own heartbeat. You are twelve years old, a page in the High Council’s modern palace, a place where the walls are not made of stone but of...
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