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... r of the Eastern Wing of the Embassy Residence, the sound of steady tapping was heard all through the murky room. Desmond Ruthania sat at the head of an ornate table, one gloved hand rhythmically tapping against the polished surface with a silver pen, the sharp tapping a measured cadence of his patience—or the slow bleed of it. A thick folder of scrolls and court documents lay sprawled before him, untouched.

Zephyrl stood beside, a few strides from the hearth, hands behind his back in pe ...

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