The Bet

She skipped her way to father’s throne, through the decrepit ruins. Her shadow danced over jagged remains of statuary, castellations born of destruction and too much time. Her syncopated steps tapped by themselves down halls occupied only by dust and shadows. The breeze was her own, and she took it with her from room to room. A continuation of HALF-SHELL PROPHECIES.

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She’d won. She’d won! He had got it wrong, but she’d won. No way was she going to pass up collecting. Dis was nothing if not thorough.