The night air outside the scholar’s archive in Duillond was cool and the starshine glimmered down upon the worn stone pavers. Parnard stared at the stars. He had already changed into his red dressing-gown lined with white satin, worn over his sword belt. The scabbard of Steel-Thorn, having nowhere to go, flared straight backward from the slitted vent of the gown like a metallic tail, and added a careless swagger to his ensemble.
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