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Elara’s throat tightened. She had never been able to refuse. Not when Missax asked her to sit for portraits for hours until her neck ached. Not when she asked her to read aloud from crumbling Latin texts she didn’t understand. Not even the night Missax had placed a cold, antique key in her palm and whispered, “Open the door to the east tower, and do not scream.”
When she opened her eyes again, she was alone in the library. The leather box was gone. The ring gleamed on her finger like a closed eye. missax - do this for me
The rain hammered louder. Elara looked at the ring, then at the woman who had commanded and confided in her in equal measure. Elara’s throat tightened
“This ring,” Missax said, “was my mother’s. And her mother’s before her. It binds the wearer to this house, to its land, to its purpose .” She paused. “I am dying, Elara. Not quickly, but truly. The blood in my veins is thinning. The cold is already in my fingers.” Not when she asked her to read aloud