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Chapter 55: The Price of Power (3)
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... ain. Shredded petals lay scattered against mud; a few stubborn stalks still gripped their colour. Odd, wasn’t it, that plants changed with the season, that the cycle of life and death could be so predictably unpredictable?
It didn’t happen like that in Mythshollow. Seasons there were a deck unshuffled.
Clouds prowled, the moon hunting gaps it almost found. How poetic. Most would call it an ordinary night, another shrug of weather. She tried to feel the shrug, failed, and tasted s ...
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