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... But it tastes okay for the first time since I got here.

I hold the hilt of Eventide firmly before tucking it in my sash. I have a weapon. I have money. It feels like a fresh start.

​But as I look up toward the upper districts, where the Guild spires pierce the artificial gloom, the fire in my chest reminds me: this isn’t a fresh start. It’s a second lap in a race I already lost.

​The Deepwarden. They are still up there, fat and happy, drinking wine made from the blood of ...

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