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... ight blossomed, too bright to bear.
“You are the Triune’s Marked.”
The priest, or so she guessed from his long white robe, smiled. Over his chest a single silver moon was embroidered, the image shifting through its phases: waxing, waning, eclipsed, and whole, over and over again. Perhaps that was the Triune he spoke of.
She hovered beside the small girl, observer and inhabitant at once. Every emotion inside the younger girl coiled in her own chest.
Am I? Shouldn’t ...
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