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... he air hung thick with the scent of cheap ale and broken dreams. In the farthest corner, where darkness pooled like spilled ink, sat a man who had once commanded the attention of emperors.
Lysander Drake raised the wine bottle to his lips with hands that still bore the calluses of sword work, though they trembled now—not from fear, but from the constant, gnawing pain of a spirit core that had been shattered and poorly mended. The wine was expensive, a bitter reminder of what he had once ...
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