'I still… I still don't understand why…' the old, sickly man, forced out, bald from the magical illness writhing below his skin, and looking like a deflated balloon in his hospital bed in St Mungo's. 'Why are you telling me this? I knew half of this already. I don't… why?'

The ancient woman, whose palm was still held in front of her, a coin spinning endlessly above it, retracted her hand. Even though the coin vanished below her robe, the sickly man could still feel it, his mind painfully aware of it spinning and never landing.

'No time for explanation as to why,' the ancient woman said, the shadows obscuring her face drawing back just enough to reveal a wide, wrinkled grin hidden below, the sickly man shuddering at the idea that her expression had been one of twisted glee this whole time. 'We've reached the end of one small story, but there are six more to come, and time moves swiftly. As I said… this is going to be a long tale.'

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