The Wistful Mirror
"Hold the line, Vane, or we’re all dead by dawn." The voice was Sergeant Miller’s, rough with gravel and fear, but the mud around my boots was already sucking at my weight, pulling me down into the black earth of the Siege of Aethelgard. I was thirty-two years old, a captain in the King’s Guard, and I had only one hand left to grip the hilt of my sword. The other stump, wrapped in rotting...
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