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... to escape her ‘accommodations.’ Cylrit had stowed the unconscious Scythe in a feature-fit guest room, with as many luxuries as the dwarven castle could afford. Plush carpets, silk bedsheets, wine and food and everything else. Her stump of an arm had even been cauterized, with a little scathing note left apologizing for how her throat would always bear the marks of my burning fingers.
And just this morning, the Scythe had disappeared like a ghost, vanishing as if she’d never been there. ...
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