The Wistful Show
The stone keep of Blackwood did not breathe, but it shivered. I felt it in my teeth, a low, grinding vibration that matched the rhythm of Julian’s breathing in the next room. He was seven years old, small and fragile, and he was dying for the third time today. I stood in the center of the chamber, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, watching the mirror. The glass was dark, a pool of ink...
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