The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-24 00:03:44 -

The shard of obsidian sits in your palm, cold and heavy as a dead bird, its surface so black it seems to swallow the light from the furnace. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and your hands are stained with the white dust of silica and the red rust of old blood, a combination that never fully washes out no matter how hard you scrub. The workshop smells of sulfur and wet wool, a thick, cloying...

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