The Wistful Mirror
The snow was already deep on the pass when I pulled the obsidian shard from my saddlebag, the stone cold and slick against my palm like a dead fish. I am Sir Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I had walked for three days to reach the Abbey of Saint Jude, driven by a single, brutal purpose: to save my brother, Julian, from the wasting plague that was hollowing him out in his bed in London....
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