I felt Mische’s magic before I saw it. Even the Sentinel I was fighting felt it, because they paused halfway through their strike to turn to the dais. When I looked to her, I knew I would remember that image for the rest of my life. Mische, standing in front of the Dusk Window, her torn dress billowing out behind her, black silk hood pinned around her face, hands outstretched like a mother’s waiting arms as the shadowy forms of the dead poured out around her. I thought, Damn masks and eyes and hearts and divine missions. This is what a true goddess looks like. A sight so stunning that it made
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