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Dawn was steadily creeping over the rooftops of the houses as they walked. Toad glanced at her. She was scrawny and her yellow-blonde hair was long and braided, wispy, brittle ends poking out at odd places. She was as plain as a broom with her second-hand clothes. He had been surprised to discover her to be so drab, what with her owning a Spit-Fire (they were common, but still costly) and being such a fluent reader. Then again, Wilson could read so that didn’t say much.
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Maybe their souls really were here together. Somehow, some way—but that couldn’t be possible. She shook herself, trying to shake away the feeling. Believing this was all real would only drive her further down the road to insanity. She was already having trouble getting a grip on reality as it was. She needed to stay grounded. Rational. Outside of here, she had a life to live. Believing in the reality of this Phoenix would make her want to give all that up.
“What are you thinking about?” Phoenix joined her by the edge of the pool and looked up at the skylights.
Telling him the truth would only ruin the moment. “I’m thinking about how we should spend our time here.”
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The Making of Willow North
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Noticing my distraction, Allison took a break from her monologue to turn and follow my gaze. “Who’s the hunk?”
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“Light a mage-fire!” the red coated man ordered.
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The Books You Read
The beast’s life had been forfeit the hour the Prince locked her in the dungeon.
She often dreamed of glittering gems beneath a canopy of starlight and soft silks against satin skin. A perfect wolf moon gleamed in the glass skylight above so silvery beams blended together with the hazy glow of a dozen candelabrum. Joy filled her every step as they danced together, her hand in his, smile lines about his perfect silver eyes. He was like the moonlight and she filled with all the warmth of the sun. His words blurred together in her memory, full of promise and hope until her light died. It was the last moment of her life she could remember and though she could not explain how she knew this, the moment her dreams died.
All dreams die in the damp dim of the dungeon of Castle Bitterhelm.
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What Sort of Monster Are You?
A figure waited on the ledge above him, silent, dark wings still. Hunter could feel her though, the ancient energy recharged like the rest of his world. “I cannot leave them sleeping,” he told her. “The risk is too great.” If Malkyn killed Hunter, if he were not able to return, these new Iron Bound would never be awakened. It would be an eternal wasting away, a thousand-year massacre.
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