The Wistful Mirror
The ink moved. It did not flow; it crawled, a black slime that pulsed against the vellum like a living vein. I watched it form a face, a screaming mouth, and then dissolve into a smudge of soot. This was the Eternal Recipe, the text that Master Thorne claimed would grant immortality to the Guild’s elite. I, Elias, thirty-two, a scribe with blood the Guild deemed tainted, was forbidden to read...
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