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Twelve manuscripts later, Mulaya had it: the last remnants of a script likely written a hundred years past. No one dared to write magic like this anymore. No one tried. Except for her. Getting her fingers on this had involved more than a little rubbing of the right elbows, greasing of the right palms, and the broken heart of a wizard who lived in Yrkai creating mechanisms for little more than art. A waste of talent, in Mulaya’s opinion. He was a talented gentleman. Now, he was a sad and talented gentleman. It didn’t matter. Mulaya didn’t have room for people in her life who would only hold her back. She had goals.
He had goals too, but they were not of the scope of hers. No, he would have only held her back. He disapproved of the idea when she’d first breached it to him, and taking it through each and every little step, the individual creations of the runes, the elaborate sigil map that Order himself would have been proud of—even standin