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... eld—a plain clay thing, chipped along one rim—should have been scalding; instead it felt lukewarm, as though the chill in her blood leeched warmth from everything it touched. She watched the last tongues of flame lick a half-collapsed log, embers settling into ash like dying stars. Each crackle reminded her of Raëdrithar's lightning—beautiful, destructive, hers to command and somehow still alien.
Across the shallow ring of stones Draven shifted, the rolled map balanced on one knee ruffli ...
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