The Black Wolf
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Then one afternoon, he broke the quiet.
“Are you not curious to know what’s in the book?” he asked, his voice smooth.
I didn’t even look at him. “It’s empty,” I muttered, reaching for the book anyway. I flipped it open and held it up for him to see.
“See? Nothing.”
His eyes glinted faintly. “Is it, though?”
I frowned.
Without thinking too much, I picked up the quill tucked into the book’s golden ring. It had no ink, but the strange pull of it made my fingers itch. Just to entertain the thought, I scribbled on the page:
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