The Wistful Mirror
Act I "You’re holding it wrong, Renate. The glass cuts inward." The voice was thin, stripped of warmth by the altitude, but the hands gripping her forearm were cold and wet with snow. Renate Bauer, thirty-two, a border guard who had spent the last decade watching the line where the valley met the world, did not look at the man speaking. She looked at the shards in her pack. The wolf-mirror,...
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