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... rs. No sweat marred his brow. He still looked every bit the refined noble son—the crest of House Crane gleaming proudly on his collar.

But inside?

His mind fractured in a dozen directions.

He dragged her in.

He actually dragged her in.

Lucavion’s voice still echoed like a dagger dropped on stone. And Priscilla—gods-damned Priscilla—had chosen to answer.

That was the part he couldn’t comprehend.

Not the witness from the terrace. That old man ...

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