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... ral flames this time—though given Rhea's history, that was always on the table—but the metaphorical kind. The kind that lit up in her eyes, flickered through her memories, and scorched a little hole right through my heart.

But first: breakfast.

"Do you want toast or porridge?" I asked, juggling two steaming pots.

Rhea was sitting at the kitchen table with her cheeks puffed and her arms crossed. Her tail swished across the seat like an agitated cat.

"I want toast.. ...

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