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The Sihde Princess

It is still raining when the Ash-Shayton clerics come for me. The light from my crown glows steady amber, casting shades of checkered light along the castle floor. They are puzzled by my appearance and they whisper among themselves for some time before approaching.

The smallest among them, a troglodyte named Mukhtar, reaches to touch my crown. I see fear in his eyes as his hand moves forward. He stands just feet away from me, drops to his knees, and stretches his arm outward. He has second thoughts and moves back, but the others goad him on and he returns.

A flash of light strikes him down, burning his hand, singeing the sleeve of his robe. “It feels like a hot ring of coals,” he says. “What is this Sihde magic?”

A man carrying a long staff steps forward, raising it high in the air. “On your feet, Sihde harlot,” he grunts, bringing the staff down on my back. “Your magic is weak and untrained!”

I groan in pain, struggle to my feet and stagger toward them, gasping to breathe.

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