PREVIEW
... stitching the room. Threads anchored at twelve points as if she’d been born in cathedrals. She threw a pulse—barely a pulse—but the dust-snow I’d watched up top exploded outward across the nave in a glitter wave that settled on everything and started to glow—faint blue on stone, brighter on Jax, brightest on me. The Grief-Singer stayed invisible to it—no glimmer on the cloth, none on the staff—but the air around him... thickened. The dust refused to land there.
"There," she said. "Any p ...
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