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| | Shadow and Silver |
 | | Next to him, to them, she is a tiny thing, a moth, a slip of snowflower, a small bird barely a mouthful for either — and both combatants are subject before her, one for his love, the other of dread. |
 | | The light that flames from her is a storm of silver, endless arcs and whorls boiling forth like the white foam of the sea, and she is not even aware of it as she advances upon him, her gaze burning into him like a blow from a sword of crystal. |
 | | But in her gestures there is nothing of notice, nor surprise, whether it be that she expects it, or is merely oblivious of all save the one she bears in her arms to land. |
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