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A shape stepped from her shadow, as if time had bent to allow him passage.

’Not’ the old man.

Not the frail body coughing through council chambers.

Not the specter of a dying throne.

But ’him’.

Henry Von Roxweld. The real Henry Von Roxweld.

Not physically younger—no, the years still kissed the corners of his sharp eyes. But his spine was straight. His shoulders squared. His beard fuller. His presence—undeniable. Like a mountain rising from mis ...

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