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... ate business wasn’t the paperwork or the threat of impending holy war. It was the inventory management.
Reed stood behind a sleek, black wooden counter in the corner of the Twilight Spire’s lobby. He held up a t-shirt. It was black, made of cheap cotton, and featured a crude, magic-printed image of his own face with glowing purple eyes.
Below the face, in bright red comic sans font, it read: I GOT BONED AT THE TWILIGHT SPIRE.
"Maira," Reed said, staring at the shirt. " ...
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