Francis Carnicom

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“No, Waxillium,” Harmony said gently. “Although that is how you’ve seen it. Duty or freedom. Burden or adventure. You were always the one who made the right choice, when others played. And so you resent it.” “No I don’t,” Wax said. Harmony smiled. The understanding in His face was infuriating.
The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)
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