“Three Illyrian warriors,” I said. “The greatest Illyrian warriors. Are having a snowball fight.” Mor’s eyes practically glowed with wicked delight. “Since they were children.” “They’re over five hundred years old.” “Do you want me to tell you the running tally of victories?” I gaped at her. Then at the field beyond. At the snowballs that were indeed flying with brutal, swift precision as dark heads popped over the walls they’d built. “No magic,” Mor recited, “no wings, no breaks.” “They’ve been out here since noon.” It was nearly three. My teeth began chattering. “I’ve always stayed in to
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