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Summary
The night air has gone still, and billowing clouds of ash linger below the sickle of the moon. They steal away onto the alure. Below the crowds have grown in revelry, but up here there is a strange peace, like the night before a siege, or a storm. Terence says as much, and then reaching a hand over, takes Dion’s within his own. His thumb traces along the jewel of a ring that bears the heraldry of his father.
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