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The glowing hut hummed softly, the faint blue light from the moss giving everything a dreamy, underwater shimmer.
The fire crackled low beside Isabella’s cooking pit. The stone walls kept the mountain wind out, but she still felt a chill run down her spine.
Not from the cold.
From Osiris.
Because the bird-brain had just said:
"Let me wash it for you."
Her pot.
HER pot.
The pot she cooked with.
The pot she guarded like h ...
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