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... but execution required finesse. The Academy stables were quiet, smelling of hay and griffon feathers. The carriage waiting for us was sleek, black, and bore the Royal Crest, but the driver perched on the seat was definitely not a royal servant.
It was the Scarred Mercenary. He was checking the harness of the Night-Mares—horses with flaming manes that pulled the royal transport. He looked jumpy, his hand hovering near the crossbow bolted to the driver’s bench.
"Plan?" Kaelen whisp ...
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