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She saw the Galitsin prince who had imprisoned Koschei-14, not out of heroism, but out of fear of his own end.

“She has the touch,” the old women said. “Her father’s fingers, her ancestor’s sight.”

“You are not your father,” Koschei-14 whispered, its voice like a chandelier falling.

Inside the clock tower, gears the size of carts sat silent. Dust covered everything. At the center, a pendulum hung still—except it wasn’t a pendulum. It was a cage.

People woke at odd hours. Milk soured by noon. Lovers parted as if seasons had passed in a single night.

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