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... dows.
Silver hair fell gently down her shoulders, divine robes rustling in the breeze.
Freya stood at the highest point in the city, gazing down at Orario. But her exquisitely beautiful face—so often smiling—was, for once, devoid of its usual charm.
Her eyes no longer held the usual seductive gentleness and fervor, but a cloud of frustration and unease that refused to dissipate.
In the still air behind her, it was as if Ottar’s voice still lingered:
"...He ...
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