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... resilience with a slow shift of his weight. The mattress yielded slightly, not with the give of feathers or wool, but with the subtle compression of perfectly formed ice crystals. He ran a hand along the bedframe. Dry. Smooth. No melting, no condensation. Iskandriel’s ice wasn’t frozen water; it was something else entirely, a substance that existed in permanent equilibrium with the ambient temperature. Tomas Veil’s scholarly memories stirred with appreciation. Such refinement required magic oper ...
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