The Wistful Mirror
The order was written in a hand so cramped the letters seemed to strangle each other, the ink brown with age and the parchment stiff as a dried leaf. Sir Aldric read it three times, his thumb tracing the jagged signature of Lord Vane, before he folded it into the lining of his tunic. He stood at the head of the column, forty years old and heavy with the weight of a war that had dragged on for a...
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