The Wistful Mountain
The scribe’s name is Elias. Speak it again, louder, for the Duke has asked to hear it. I stood in the center of the great hall, the floor cold through the soles of my boots, and watched the Duke’s men circle me. They held halberds, the steel tips tapping a restless rhythm against the stone. In the corner, propped against a pillar of black marble, sat the mirror. It was not a whole mirror, nor...
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