The Golden Mirror
The cold in the sub-basement of Blackwood Asylum did not behave like air; it behaved like a weight, pressing against Elias Thorne’s chest and settling into the marrow of his bones. He was forty-two years old, a man who had spent two decades chasing the ghosts of others, but tonight he was the ghost, trapped in a concrete box that smelled of wet limestone and old blood. The Golden Mirror hung on...
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