The Wistful Mirror
The ink on the parchment was still wet when the High Warden struck the table with his knuckles, the sound sharp as a bone snapping in the cold air of the archive. Christina Argyros stood rigid, her hand pressed flat against the Obsidian Sigil, a heavy disc of black stone that had been cold against her palm for three years. The room smelled of wet wool and the metallic tang of fresh blood, a...
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