denay davis

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I turned around. “Where have you⁠—” Mische stood before me, grinning, hands clasped behind her back. I forgot what I had been saying. She wore a gown that was so distinctly Shadowborn that on anyone else, it would verge on stereotype. And yet, contrasted with her lightness—lightness that transcended even death itself—it
The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)
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