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    Ruadhan’s office was the same as always. Stark, austere. In natural sunlight it just looked like a clean and orderly office, but with lantern light flicking dark shadows across the walls and ceiling, it felt ominous. Kiol was annoyed at himself. How often had he stood here in the middle of the night? He had never been bothered before.


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    Sitting cross-legged on a straw mat, eyes closed, elegant fingers dancing across a bamboo flute—the picture of serenity—was Nirin.