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... om itself had turned against them. Eleanor stood facing Lysandra, her posture languid but her soft blue eyes stripped of all warmth, like winter skies over frozen graves. To Ryan, watching from the side, the woman before him seemed a stranger wearing his aunt’s familiar face. A shiver crawled up his spine. Eleanor had always been mischievous, playful even—but this Eleanor? She was a blade sheathed in silk.
"Long time no chat, Lysandra," Eleanor said, voice lilting with an old, mocking me ...
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