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... ch the horizon, but already, Severus found himself drenched in sweat, tension coiling within him like a spring ready to snap. The encrypted parchment in his hand flickered with warded ink—Arcturus’s personal seal glimmering ominously, flaring and fading like a distant star in his palm. He examined the words thrice, each reading more deliberate than the last, as if the weight of the message would shift with each pass.
"The Caelans are dead. Murdered in Paris. No traces. Just the Mark."
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