The Wistful Mirror
The count of stitches in the wound was forty-three, a number that felt like a verdict rather than a measurement. You counted them again, your fingers trembling not from the cold of the infirmary but from the sudden, sickening awareness of the black vein pulsing beneath the skin of your own left wrist. It was there, undeniable, a dark thread woven into the pale flesh where the King’s plague had...
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