The Wistful Mirror
The ink in my quill had begun to dry, the tip cracking against the parchment, a sharp, brittle sound that echoed in the hushed scriptorium like a bone snapping, and I could not stop my hand from moving, for I had to finish the final chapter of the *Liber Vitae* before the light failed, not because the sun was setting, but because the mirror in the corner of the room was waiting for me, that...
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