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... ythm that kept a mage's mind and spirit in delicate balance. At this particular moment, with the sky still washed in the pale blues and grays of daybreak, she felt that imbalance keenly. A fierce yawn forced its way out, and she nearly dropped the battered crate of spellbooks she was in the process of moving. The crate smelled faintly of mildew and a comforting hint of cinnamon—possibly from the spice-laced ward someone had tried (and failed) to set on the books ages ago. Either way, the scent r ...

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