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... e. His figure, motionless, seemed carved from living obsidian, as if he didn't quite belong on this plane. He wore a dark cloak that fell like a liquid shadow down the sides of the throne, and a low crown, without jewels or gold, just a circle of wrought iron marked with ash. His eyes, deep as the Styx, rested first on Hecate, then on me... and finally on Demeter.

When he spoke, his voice did not fill the hall. It didn't need to. It was calm, effortless, but every word felt as if the air ...

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