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Chapter 18: What the Marsh Doesn’t Bury
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Chapter 20: The Collector of Broken Things
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... pecially the gods, would hear.
As he pressed his fingers to the skin. A tremor ran up his arm, not the weakness of hunger, but a warning: the aether inside him was low, a candle burned down to its own wax.
He closed his eyes. It was impossible to recall the old rituals, the right order of words, the way the power used to flood him with nothing more than the memory of a sunbeam.
Now, it was effort. Now, it hurt.
He bit his tongue and focused. At first there was onl ...
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