For the past two weeks, a playful, conspiratorial air had gripped the stone corridors of Skuggheim. Freya had noticed sentinels exchanging knowing grins whenever she passed, while Master Einar and the master builders abruptly hid blueprints beneath sheepskin rolls whenever she entered the council chambers. Even Torin had been slipping away from their bed in the early morning hours, returning smelling of fresh sawdust, granite dust, and warm molten copper,…
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