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... at at my desk, a half-melted candle flickering beside me, rereading the same brittle pages of the journal we'd found in the forbidden wing. The old leather cover smelled like grave dirt and forgotten oaths. Its script curled like smoke—flourished, fragmented, and occasionally written in blood.
Possibly. I hoped it was ink. Probably.
A dozen phrases repeated in my mind, etched into me like the burn of a rune:The child with the mirrored eyes.The sigil was marked before birth.Blood ...
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