The Golden Mirror
The mud of the trench was not just wet; it was a living, sucking weight that pulled at Elias Thorne’s boots with every step. He stood in the rain, the water running in rivulets down his face, mixing with the grime and the blood that had dried black on his cheek. In his left hand, he clutched a bronze mirror, its surface cracked into a spiderweb of fractures, the bronze tarnished and cold...
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