The Wistful Mirror

added blog Literature

2026-08-24 07:58:35 -

The candle burned down to the wick, and Thomas counted the hours in the scratch of his quill. Three. Four. Five. The ink was black, thick as blood, and it smelled of iron and old oak. In the high hall of Lord Vane’s manor, the air was cold enough to see breath, but the polished surface of the writing table held a warmth that did not come from the fire. It was a subtle, oily heat, like a hand...

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