She had always been a piece of chaos in the shape of a girl with rough edges and pinprick scars lining her mouth. And she knew that because of it she underestimated her twin. A boy made of broken glass and ashes and scars on scars on scars.
It had been safer when their lives had been chained to one sect. Before the Twelve knew; before the cloisters, before everything. When they were nothing and no one and only dirt on the floor of a temple where ugly black speech churned under the stones.

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