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The necklace I’d bought off the Omalian merchant during the second trial. The necklace I had gifted Arin the night of the Victor’s Ball. He kept it.
Arin of Nizahl, who did not tolerate a loose stitch or a crooked collar, who inspected every grain of dust that dared settle over him, had been wearing a cheap piece of Omalian jewelry under his punishing layers of clothes. No eloquent words or theories or complex pieces of strategy could explain it.
I never stood a chance.
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