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The hall around them hummed with subdued curiosity — the collective strain of students pretending not to listen.
Isolde’s tone was perfect: warm, polite, no hint of recognition. As though they were strangers.
As though she hadn’t watched him burn.
As though she hadn’t erased him from the world herself.
A test wrapped in courtesy.
Lucavion met her gaze, his smirk sharpening. "It is an honor to hear that, Miss—"
"Isolde."
She offered the ...
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