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“What was she like?”

Kristophe Andersen shrugged. “She was small. Very small.” his face broke out into a broad grin as he recalled details of the Chosen One. “She was funny. I think I’ll have a lot of fun with this one.”

The lady opposite him – a tall lady, with white blonde hair and pale grey eyes – shook her head: in disapproval, in disappointment or in surrender; it was hard to tell.

“You are old now, Kristophe. It is time you stop playing.”

Kristophe shook his head. “You are wrong, dear cousin. It is when one stops playing that one becomes old. It is when one stops playing that death comes. That is why The Game must go on. That is why I will live forever, and you will die.”

The woman snorted in derision and turned away. “You are old and a fool. Leave, now, Kristophe.”

“As you wish, cousin dearest.”

And like that, he was gone.

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