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... ice has always felt like coming home.
Tall shelves of ebony and blackened iron rise to the vaulted ceiling, with each one packed with ancient tomes and scrolls bound in leather darker than midnight.
Torchlight flickers across the spines, catching faint gold-embossed titles in languages long forgotten by most of Elyndor.
Between the shelves stand old statues; those shadowy gargoyles with ruby eyes that seem to follow movement, those winged serpents coiled around crystal or ...
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