The Wistful Mirror
The decree is state property, Fintan," the Steward said, his voice flat as the canal water outside. "You are a peasant with a superstition, not a claimant with a right." I stood in the white glare of the Court’s throne room, the air heavy with polished chrome and old dust. My ribs ached, a dull throb that matched the low, resonant hum vibrating in my teeth. It was the Amber Vial, sitting on the...
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