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    Summary

    "Gale," the paladin finally spoke, voice quiet under the crackle of the fire pit and the breeze in the trees around them. "Surely you know that with or without your magic, you are still an incredible man?"

    Gale couldn't answer that. He tried, mouth opening, but no words came out of it. His usual charm of words, the security blanket of knowledge, the comfort of a conversation's upper hand. There was nothing. Not when they were alone. Not when Mylo looked at him like that. his finger traced the muted purple line down the side of his neck.

    "Gale," Mylo repeated again, softer this time, and something laced his words. Not just something, no - a certain sadness that escaped in the pitch of his voice. Not even pity. Sympathy. "Great Gods, Gale. If only you could see yourself the way that I do."

    Language:
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