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... you can make other people do to themselves."
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The heavy oak door slammed against its frame hard enough to rattle the crystal inkwell on Alistair Valerius’s desk. Dark droplets sprayed across the polished wood. Vance Thorne stood in the doorway, breathing hard from his sprint across the academy grounds. His golden hair hung in damp strands across his forehead. His House Aurum uniform looked like he’d slept in it, the usually immaculate golden trim dulled by dried mud.
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