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... o once graced the grand hall, those hands that seemed to easily decide the life and death, glory and shame of tens of thousands, actually trembled slightly when picking up that piece of paper.
Every word was familiar to them.
Because the letter was written by a hidden spy, a shadow without a past, nor a future. Their handwriting bore no distinctive features, because features meant clarity, meant being recognized.
Recognition would mean death.
Their hands could emu ...
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