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Chapter 31: The Bad Old Days
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Chapter 33: The Watcher
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... he gallery, a cold, sudden downpour that soaked through my hoodie in seconds.
I didn’t run, I couldn’t. The portrait Lysander had drawn for me was still clutched in my arms against my chest, the paper had already started warping under the water.
I stared at it, at the soft charcoal eyes he’d given me, and felt something inside crack wide open.
I had gone back for it despite Mordred’s words. No matter what, it was a gift made for me and so I needed to keep it. But when I w ...
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