The broom’s anger intensified as the image of a crowded, depressurized cargo hold forced its way into the witch’s mind. The baggage handlers had thrown the broom in there like so much trash. It had nearly been crushed. “Stop being dramatic,” the witch scolded, pulling a leather carrying strap out of one of his spelled pockets and threading the broom’s handle through the loops at the ends. “You were crafted by the Witch of the Bones herself. Surely you can take a bit of rough handling.” The broom responded with a stab of ire so intense, the witch had to check his palm to make sure he wasn’t
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