Written by Thomas Mansfield
Edited by Liam Selby
Chloe walked up the path that led to the witch’s hut, carrying a basket of bread, cheese, and olives. She hummed a nervous tune as she walked, keeping an eye out for any signs of danger. She knew little about the witch called Opeia, only that she kept to herself and that the adults feared her. I hope the offering will please her enough to listen to me.
The hut stood at the top of a tall hill, from which Chloe could see the whole town of Tethyes stretching out below, a sea of white houses and orange-tiled roofs surrounded by a forest of white pine, fig, and sycamore. The River Without a Name bordered the town on its eastern side, flowing from the grand city of Whitefoam all the way down to the northern coast a hundred miles away.
The hut itself was fairly ordinary. Witches were evil women who worshiped demons, Chloe knew, and she had expected a dark ruin of a house with skulls, hissing black cats, and abyssal signs writ in blood. What she found instead was a simple house of limebrick and wood, with a garden, a tiled roof, several chickens, and a couple of goats. One would never even guess that the house’s occupant was a witch unless they had been told. Chloe supposed that was the intent.
Steeling herself, she marched up to the door and knocked three times. She stood tall, doing her best to hide her nerves. A long moment passed without answer. Chloe rocked back and forth on her heels, playing with her braids impatiently, then knocked again.
“What do you want, girl?”
Chloe whirled around with a gasp of fear. The witch loomed over her, dressed in a lilac tunic and dress, both made of wool. An indigo veil was wrapped around her head to cover her face, ears, and hair so that the only visible part of her that was her piercing blue eyes. She held two slaughtered rabbits in one hand, a tall ivory staff in the other, and a crossbow was slung over her shoulder by a leather strap.
Chloe quickly gathered her wits. “Are you Opeia the witch?” she inquired.
“Witch?” The woman scoffed. “You peasants, I swear you’re all deaf. I’m a wizard, for the hundredth time.”
That didn’t make any sense. “Only men can be wizards,” Chloe pointed out.
“Oh, they’d love you to believe that,” the witch said darkly. “That all wise wizards are men and all heathen witches are women.” Her eyes seemed to peer through Chloe. “You’re the weaver’s daughter.”
The quickness of the deduction stunned Chloe silent for a moment. “You know of me?”
“I do. It’s not often a girl is chosen for the mist trial, after all. Why are you here?”
“I … I want to learn about witches. Or wizards, I suppose.” Chloe stood as tall as she could. “I’ve been told that I could be a spiritbinder, a strong one, but—”
“Anyone can be a spiritbinder,” the wizard snapped. “Why are you wasting my time, girl? I know full well that those who pass the mist trial are brought into the priesthood.”
“We’re offered a place in the priesthood,” Chloe corrected. “The hieropate has offered to make me a cleric, and Hilaros has offered to make me a druid. But nobody so far has offered to make me a wizard.”
The wizard studied her silently for a moment. Her eyes flicked to the basket of goods Chloe was carrying. “Very well. Come inside, girl.”
The interior of the hut was far finer than the outside had suggested. An exquisite cedar table sat in the centre upon a rug of sky blue and emerald green, patterned with rectangular spirals and blooming flowers. An iron stove stood dark and imposing, with herbs, mushrooms, and dried meats hanging from the ceiling over a stone counter. The room was divided by a wood-and-paper screen painted with depictions of satyrs and ventyrs, dryads and naiads – nature sprites of all kinds engaged in mischief and carnal acts.
Opeia stepped around the table, holding out the rabbits and letting them go, whereupon they moved on their own accord to the countertop. A knife floated up from the counter to skin them in midair. Chloe stared at the scene with her mouth agape, while Opeia sat down at the table calmly, as if all of this was no more extraordinary than the wind. At a gesture from the woman, Chloe took a seat, drawing out the bread from her basket and breaking it in half. As she did, Opeia flicked her wrist and uttered a quick, airy word. The doors of a nearby cupboard flew open at the command, and from it a silver flagon and two crystal goblets flew onto the table, seemingly conducted by Opeia’s delicate finger movements. The flagon filled both cups with a richly red wine without spilling a drop, then they all floated gently to the table, one cup placed before either of them.
“So,” Opeia said with directness, “what is it you want to learn about wizardry, girl?”
Chloe barely heard her, staring in blank shock at the goblet. She uses her magic like it’s nothing to her! Realising she was being spoken to, she cleared her throat and answered, “Well … if it pleases you, domina, I want to know how your magic is different from druidic and priestly magics.”
Opeia cocked her head. “‘Domina’ you call me? Your mother taught you proper manners, I see. But domina is used for women of high birth, and I am a lowly trail wizard.”
“But you speak like a lady,” Chloe pointed out. “And you called me a peasant before. Even if you’re not a lady right now, you surely used to be.”
Chloe saw the smile in the magician’s eyes. “You are sharp for your age,” Opeia said. Chloe smiled back.
The wizard took her cup and parted her veil to take a drink. Chloe looked away respectfully. Women stopped wearing veils in Tethyes long ago, but people from the west coast still practiced it, and she didn’t want to be rude. Tentatively, she reached out and took a sip of her own wine, coughing as she swallowed. It was sour, yet strangely sweet, and it seemed to burn at the back of her throat. The taste reminded her of pomegranate.
Opeia covered her face again, then turned to her. “Why?” she asked. “You’ve been offered a place in the priesthood and a druid’s apprenticeship, both positions of respect. I know people who would saw off their own hands if it meant enjoying the wealth of a church minister, yet here you sit. Why do you hesitate?”
Chloe wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know … It just didn’t sound right.”
“Hm.” Opeia put her cup down. “Tell me what didn’t sound right,” she asked, though Chloe thought it sounded more like a command. “Perhaps that will give us both a clearer vision of what you are looking for.”
So Chloe told her.
The mist trial was an old practice, Chloe had been told. Every year the church would choose twenty children from the town at random to test if they were able to use magic. Those who passed the trial were offered a place in the church, and those who failed were sent back home. Chloe had been quite surprised and suspicious when she learned that she’d been selected. Girls are never chosen for the trial, she knew, and she had wondered if someone was trying to make a fool out of her. She’d tried to ask why she’d been chosen when the novices and the chapel guards fetched her, just before the crack of dawn. “All will be explained in time,” they’d patiently told her. She hadn’t found the answer satisfying.
Nineteen boys made up the rest of the trial, some as young as eight, some as old as fifteen. They stared at her with confusion when the priests brought her into the group, and some even complained, but both she and the novices ignored them. They were taken to a hollow in the hills bordering the river and were made to sit in the grass and dirt at the bottom, where the early morning mists pooled. The novices told them to “empty their minds” and “listen to the spirits”, but when Chloe asked them how to do that, they shushed her. A nearby boy chuckled and called her stupid underneath his breath. “You don’t know how to listen to the spirits either,” she snapped at him before getting shushed again.
It felt like an age that she sat out there, listening to the yawning and grumbling of the town boys and feeling the sun’s rays wash over her as it rose in the sky. Much of the mist burned away as the sun touched it, but some of it remained for a bit longer, clouds of light blue vapour that rose a foot off the ground. Curiously, the clouds that lingered seemed to single out and shroud over specific boys, and the mists around Chloe remained for much longer than those of the others. Once all the mist was gone, the novices announced the trial over. “Does this mean we pass?” she asked, only to be hushed once more.
Of the twenty, the priests chose Chloe and six other boys to take back to the town chapel. It was an old building, possibly the oldest in Tethyes, built of proper granite brick rather than cobblestones. A ring of curved wooden pews surrounded a circular dais where the hieropate would deliver his quinday sermons, upon which was painted a simple fresco of a sideways white eye against a blue sky, with rays of light instead of lashes. This was the symbol of the First Eye, the one true god to rule all gods.
Hieropate Glaukos greeted them in this chamber, standing in the centre of the room as usual. The old priest wore white vestments with a long green stole, along with a white cap that hid the few wispy strands of hair he had left. “As hieropate of Tethyes,” he droned, his jowls shuddering with his low, monotonous voice, “it is my honour to offer you a place within the Church of the First Eye. If you would accept, we would take you in as clerics and teach you the sacred art of spiritbinding—”
“But why?” Chloe asked loudly, desperate to get some kind of answer. “What did we do in the mist trial?”
“Shut up!” hissed a nearby boy. “He’s going to let us in the church!” growled another. They glared at her and muttered insults, and Chloe felt her cheeks turn red with anger. I’m just asking questions! What’s wrong with that?
Glaukos waited for the muttering to fade before answering her. “The trial reveals your attunement to the spirits, young Chloe,” he said kindly. “For spirits are the shards of the souls of holy men, left behind after death, and mists are spirits given form. The longer your mists linger before burning in the sun, the greater your attunement, and the greater a spiritbinder you can be.” He turned back to address all of them. “As I was saying, we would teach you—”
“But what do spiritbinders do?”
The boys muttered again after she asked her question, and Chloe saw a flash of irritation pass over the hieropate’s face before he answered. “Spiritbinders wield the divine power of the First Eye, my child. They lure spirits to their person, bind them with faith and prayer, and then use them to perform miracles.”
There was more muttering at those words, excited this time. Even Chloe was rendered speechless when she realised what he was saying. He’s going to teach us magic.
“As novices of the cloth, you would learn the healing miracles, how to mend flesh with a touch, and protect others from harm,” Glaukos continued. “In time, you will be taught the miracles unique to our patron, Saint Petrus. All the while you would be given bed and board within the church.”
“Even the girl?” asked one of the younger boys doubtfully. There was no muttering when he asked a question, to Chloe’s annoyance.
Glaukos gave the boy a reproachful look. “Yes, even her. I imagine you are all excited, but you should not give your answer so quickly. For now, you may return to your homes and think on this offer. You may accept or refuse as you wish on the morrow.”
He held her back as the boys were filtered out by the other priests. He looked down at her, a gentle smile on his lips. “You ask many questions, young Chloe,” Glaukos remarked.
“Only when things don’t make sense, reverentus,” Chloe replied, hoping the formal address would disguise her wariness. “May I ask why I was chosen for the mist trial?”
Glaukos sighed. “Your father is the reason we sought you, truth be told. I witnessed Cieran’s mist trial myself, some twenty years ago. Like you, he greatly exceeded the other children, holding onto his mists long after the sun had risen. Twenty minutes, I think it was … or it might have been less, I cannot quite recall. He declined to join the clergy back then, on the grounds that he was his father’s only son and had no-one else to run his business. You have not heard this?”
“My mother doesn’t speak of him often,” Chloe mumbled in reply, taken aback by this revelation. Her father had died when Chloe was very young, slain by bandits while travelling to Whitefoam. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You are his only child,” Glaukos told her, eyes twinkling. “I thought you might have inherited your father’s attunement. And you have. Your mists remained for nearly thirty minutes. I have only ever read about clerics with such a deep attunement. To say you would be a fine spiritbinder would be an understatement. With potential like yours, you would rise high in our ranks, and rise quickly, serving high lords and ladies in matters of faith and spirits. Given training and patience, I have no doubt you’d serve in Whitefoam or some other great city.”
“As a healer?” Chloe asked doubtfully.
“As a priest. Healing magic is but the first step in your training. Should your devotion prove true, then the First Eye would no doubt teach you more varied miracles.”
“So, the Eye decides my magic,” Chloe deduced. Something about that irked her. “Why can’t I choose my magic for myself?”
The warm smile vanished in an instant and undisguised anger took its place. From how insulted he looked, one would think she had slapped him. “It is the First Eye’s power that we wield, girl, not our own. Clerics who think otherwise do not keep their magic for long.”
“Keep their magic?” Chloe’s eyes widened in outrage. “As in, they can lose it?”
“If they prove themselves unfit to wield it. Questioning the divine majesty of the Eye is a quick way to do so.” Glaukos frowned. “Perhaps this was a mistake … but I cannot discount your potential. I shall send you home to think on what I have said. My offer into the clergy remains open, and you are free to refuse it as the other boys are, but I urge you to choose otherwise. We need people like you in the church, young Chloe.”
“But why?”
“Because we are at war,” the hieropate replied simply. “Only the First Eye can defend us against our enemies, child, and only spiritbinders can wield Its power. We need people like you in our ranks, Chloe. Providence needs you.”
“Providence needs you,” Opeia scoffed after Chloe finished that part of the story. “What utter nonsense.”
Chloe chewed on the olive in her mouth, not laughing. She and Opeia had finished the cheese and half the bread by now, and the invisible servant was cooking the rabbit upon the stovetop, filling the hut with the aroma of sizzling meat. The wine had made Chloe feel giddy and slightly sick, so she’d left most of her cup undrunk. Opeia’s, meanwhile, was halfway empty.
“The king has more soldiers and clerics than he knows what to do with,” Opeia continued derisively. “He will not miss one novice.”
“But we are at war.” Chloe said anxiously, carefully spitting out the olive stone. “The desert people are revolting, aren’t they? The king said so himself. They tried to invade us from the Goliath’s Pass. They even tried to assassinate the prince, in the capital!”
“So our king has said,” Opeia replied, unconcerned. “Though I’m not quite convinced.”
It took all of Chloe’s good graces to keep her jaw from falling to the floor. “You think the king lied, domina?”
“I think the king is wrong. It is a different thing.” Opeia parted her veil to drink again, then told her, “You are wise to be frightened of war, young Chloe, but the fact is, these ‘desert people’ despise each other far more than they despise Providence. The Redbloods have spent the past fifteen to twenty years helping slavers kidnap dragonkin, who make up the vast majority of the Bluebanes. Indeed, the only reason the Redbloods tried to brave the Goliath’s Pass was to escape the Bluebanes. If our king is wise, he will simply wait for the two sides to destroy each other before restoring order to the desert realms.”
Chloe didn’t know what stunned her more, the wizard’s flippancy towards the war, or that she dared to question the king. “King Ergon said that he’s going to take the fight to Ifenswalk,” she mumbled faintly.
“He would say that, wouldn’t he?” Opeia sounded annoyed. She put her cup down, muttering, “Well, far be it from me to question our divine sovereign. Let us return to your story. What did you do after the hieropate dismissed you?”
Chloe took a moment to recover. “Well, I spent most of the day at the market, domina, to buy thread for my mother. I thought about the hieropate’s offer, and I thought I might end up accepting it after all … but that’s when I met the druid Hilaros.”
Chloe had known her mother had been seeing another man for a while. The signs had all been there. The mysterious gifts around the house, the extended “shopping trips” that mother kept sending her on … Chloe had known what that meant. She’d seen it a dozen times before, with all the men who had come and gone over the years, but she’d always known to be out of the house while they were there.
But that day, when Chloe returned home from the market, he had been there to greet her.
She froze in the doorway when she saw him, tensing up like there was a sword at her throat. The man was tall, heavy set, and dressed in brown leathers with a long green cloak. Her mother was sitting in his lap, laughing and stroking his beard, beneath which Chloe could only just make out a grin. “Ah, this must be your prodigy of a daughter!” he guffawed. “Chloe, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” she replied coldly.
“I’ve heard all about you, I have, courtesy of your beauty of a mother here.” He gave her mother a squeeze around the waist. “Can’t stop gushing about how proud you are, can you, Rhonda?”
Her mother’s giggle sounded like it belonged to a girl of twelve, not a woman of thirty. A tall crown of gnarled branches sat on her head, and she clutched a handful of white daisies in her hands. Chloe could only assume this man had given her both. “Chloe, dearest, this is the druid Hilaros,” she said airily, her hand resting on his chest. “He’s just come around to pay us a visit.”
Chloe didn’t reply, glaring at the intruder who was fondling her mother. The druid just chuckled. “Ah, the girl’s cross with me. And why shouldn’t you be? I’m a stranger in your own home.” Hilaros lifted her mother back to her feet, standing up and plucking off one of the branches of his crown. He swept his hand across the length, whistling a sharp note, upon which a cluster of dark, glistening blackberries sprouted and ripened upon the branch in a matter of seconds. “Here, take these in recompense. I’ve lived my whole life on these fruits, I have! Pop one in your mouth, and you’ll see why!”
Chloe hesitated for a moment, then took one against her better judgement. It was delicious. Juicy, sweet and sour, as any good berry should be. Even one was enough to sate her completely, as if she’d feasted for a whole day. “Magic,” she whispered. “You’re a priest?”
At that, Hilaros laughed a laugh so deep and booming that it rolled off the walls like thunder. “Do you think priests are the only ones who can use magic, girl? I’m a druid and a spiritbinder, that’s what I am!”
Chloe frowned, confused. “But the hieropate said that spirits come from dead saints, not dead druids.”
“Dead what?” He laughed even harder this time. “Ah, Glaukos couldn’t tell a cow and a bull apart if he was looking up their rears! That fool witch up in the hills knows the spirits better than him!” He shook his head as he got a hold of himself, wiping away a tear. “Spirits come from the land, girl, not mouldering priests! They come from the deer, the trees, every bit of the natural world. That’s what spirits are!” He chuckled once more. “Rhonda, may I speak a word to your daughter alone? Seems that she’s got some nonsense in her head that needs dispelling.”
“Of course,” Chloe’s mother replied, beaming stupidly at him. Yet Chloe was curious now and followed Hilaros outside.
Hilaros took her into the garden to talk. It was a miserable patch of grass contained by a worn wooden fence, with a washing-line dividing it down the middle. Hilaros strode up to the fence and propped his foot up on it. Only then did Chloe realise that his right leg was made entirely of wood. It was no mere prosthetic – the device flexed and tensed like it was made of flesh, with bark instead of skin and vines instead of veins.
“Ahh … can you smell that, girl?” Hilaros asked with a grin, breathing in deep. “That sweet smell of grass and earth. Gods, that’s a good smell.”
“I don’t smell anything,” Chloe murmured, unable to tear her eyes away from his leg. Returning her eyes to his, she asked, “Why are you really here?”
“To save you from a life of cold stone chapels and ungrateful gods!” Hilaros replied, like it had been completely obvious. “I heard of your father, girl, and the spiritbinder he could’ve been. Most of those who pass the mist trial are snaffled up by that old windbag, Glaukos, so it falls to me to come around and remind them that they can be druids and serve the land instead!”
Chloe stared at him incredulously. Who in their right mind would insult the hieropate? “And what magic do druids have?”
“Oh, you know it, girl.You saw it when I grew those berries for you. Wild magic!” Kneeling down to the grass, Hilaros took in a deep breath and blew a gust of strong wind from his lungs. Wildflowers erupted from where his breath met the ground, blooming into sun yellows, cloud whites, ruby reds, and sapphire blues. Chloe gasped and laughed in delight despite herself. She picked up a handful of flowers quickly, almost afraid that they’d disappear if she didn’t.
Hilaros stood back up, grinning. “That there, girl, is only the start of it! We can talk to beasts, conjure sprites, and we can make trees stand and walk like men! Wind, earth, fire and water, all four elements are ours to command! I’ve heard that there’re some druids who can even shapechange into beasts, though I’ve never figured out that particular trick. I can teach you all this and more, girl, and if your father was half as potent as I heard he was, you could outperform the Archdruids of Del Nivara!”
Chloe looked up at Hilaros like he was made of stardust. “Who are the Archdruids?” she babbled, forgetting herself. “Do they serve the king, like the cardinals of the King’s Cathedral?”
“Nay, we’re our own breed. Old King Aragon is far too busy scoffing pies to pay us any mind.”
Chloe’s smile flickered. “King Aragon died ten years ago.”
“Oh, did he?” Hilaros sounded surprised. “Who’s king now, then?”
The flowers dropped from Chloe’s hands along with her heart. “King Ergon!” She cried in disbelief. “How can you forget who the king is?”
“Can I forget a man I’ve never met?” Hilaros shrugged. “Kings come and go, girl.”
“But he’s the King! The Lord of Prince’s River, of Providence, of Karatera!”
Hilaros sighed. “What is Karatera, girl? What is Providence? Names that we give to lines scribbled on a map. What does the forest care what some fool with a crown calls it, I ask?”
Chloe was suspicious now. She paced back and forth before him, demanding, “Do druids keep their magic? Or can they lose it, like priests can?”
“If they betrayed the druid’s code, aye.”
“Which is?”
“To protect nature,” Hilaros replied simply. “To make sure that humanity’s appetite does not exceed what the world has given it. Look around you, girl. The Coastlands is a paradise of fertile soil and sparkling rivers, a far cry from the sandy wastes just beyond the mountains. A druid’s job is to ensure that it stays that way. We make sure the cities stay to the cities, and the wilds stay wild. That’s all.”
Chloe wasn’t sure that she wanted to “protect nature” for the rest of her waking days. Hilaros must’ve seen her hesitation. He chuckled and said, “Ah, I’ve taken enough of your time. Think on my offer, girl. It’ll do more harm than good if you swear your oaths while your heart isn’t in it. But rest assured, you’ll do better with a druid’s cloak than you will with a cleric’s.”
“Wait,” Chloe said as he started to leave. He turned back to her. “You mentioned a witch before, in the hills. Is she a spiritbinder too?”
Hilaros’s smile looked disappointed. “Aye, girl. That she is.”
“And that’s when you decided to seek me out?” Opeia asked, her second glass of wine in hand.
Chloe nodded, trying to quickly chew and swallow the chunk of bread in her mouth before she spoke. “Aye. I thought that if neither priest nor druid sounded right for me, then perhaps I could be a witch instead. Or wizard, I suppose. Are wizards spiritbinders too?”
“Virtually all magicians are,” Opeia replied, swirling her wine around in her glass. “Hilaros was the closest to the truth when he was explaining spiritbinding. All living creatures leave spirits behind when they die, people and beasts alike. It’s those spirits that make magic possible. Without them, neither I, Glaukos nor Hilaros would have any powers at all.”
“Then all magic is the same?”
“The binding methods differ, and that restricts the specific spells a binder can cast,” Opeia admitted. “But yes … at the end of the day, priest, druid, and wizard are all just different words for a spiritbinder.”
Opeia turned away to lower her veil and take another sip of wine. Chloe almost forgot to look away, so fascinated she was with this woman. “How do wizards differ, domina?” she asked.
“Well, for a start, there’s no risk of you losing your magic to the whims of gods or nature,” Opeia chuckled. “We keep our spells in books and scrolls, and even if you somehow lose your spellbook, you don’t suddenly forget how to spiritbind. And the magics you can learn … We wizards will never learn how to heal or command plants, but we can lift objects with our minds, disguise our faces with those of others, conjure invisible servants that obey our commands … even turn ourselves invisible, for a time.”
The wizard leant back and snapped her fingers. Perfect images of herself appeared to her right and her left, identical in every way, right down to the chair. “My specialty is illusions,” Opeia said proudly. Her voice seemed to echo from her two doppelgangers. “Creating images of things that are not there. I could be in the other room, speaking to you through a magic image, and you wouldn’t know the difference. Except then I wouldn’t be enjoying this lovely meal.” She reached over and plucked one of the berries from the basket to make her point. Her mirror duplicates merely phased through it, then dissipated into mist.
Chloe stared at Opeia, her eyes and mind boggling. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to beg this incredible woman to teach her what she knew. And she almost did. But something made her hesitate. “And what would I sacrifice, Domina Opeia, if I were to become a wizard too?” she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“Everything,” Opeia told her. Her voice was stern now. “Arcane spells are harder to learn than divine ones. You will spend long, sleepless nights learning this craft, and you will seldom receive the respect you deserve. Wizards are misunderstood in the Coastlands, young Chloe. The love that people have for clerics and the respect they have for druids is rooted in the fact that they wield magic bestowed to them by a sacred power. But wizards make their own magic, and that makes them seem dangerous. You would be choosing a difficult path.”
Chloe sat in silence for a moment, turning Opeia’s words over her head. Clerics had a price, druids had a price, and it sounded as if wizards had the greatest price of all. “Then what’s the right choice?” she asked, feeling helpless.
“There isn’t one,” Opeia replied flatly. “There is only your choice.”
Chloe turned her cup around in her hands. “What if I didn’t choose any of them?” She asked quietly. “What if I wanted to live my mother’s life, as a weaver?”
Opeia scoffed. “And what kind of life is that? Emptying your purse for a loaf of bread, marriage at sixteen to a man of thirty, and the self-made hell of childrearing. No, you should not waste your gifts on a peasant’s life, girl. But if you are uncertain as to what path to take, then give yourself three days to think. On the first, think on what you would gain from each path. On the second, what you would lose. On the third, compare each path to the other, and you will know what you want beyond a shadow of a doubt.” Opeia put her cup down, sending both goblets and the wine pitcher back into the cupboard with the wave of a hand. “But for now, girl, I must send you home. Your mother will be worrying about you, after all, and I am expecting guests soon.”
And so Chloe left, with an empty basket and a head swirling with thoughts. She would do as Opeia said, she decided, and she would properly think on what kind of spiritbinder she wanted to be. But somewhere in her heart, she already knew.
The End
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