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“The Prince takes much from you.” You lifted one shoulder. “He made me, my friend.” You had asked your squire’s name once, but he’d said he was never given one. You filled the absence with other words, none of which described what he was to you. “He—he loves me.”
alex
Oh I love this. The messing with memory and fucking around with perspective
The Six Deaths of the Saint (Into Shadow, #3)
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