The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-24 18:46:20 -

The light in Aethelgard is always the color of old brass. It filters through the dome’s outer membrane, turning the stone streets of Provence into a sepia photograph of a world that no longer exists. I am twelve years old, and my hands smell of ink and the damp earth that leaks from the cellar vents. My name is Louis Duval, though I do not say it often. I am a scribe, a lowly clerk to the Duke,...

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