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The large wooden door at the far side of the cell creaked open and Moira’s fingers instinctively searched the air for a thread of magic, but found none. Ulrich entered, carrying a pail of water. Moira called to him but he ignored her pleas. He dipped a ladle into the bucket, filling it with water then bringing it to her lips. She attempted to raise her head to drink, but a stab of pain stopped her. The water soaked her hair and face. Bloody water dripped from the table and collected at Ulrich’s feet. 

As Ulrich stood over her, Moira took the opportunity to study the threads the Queen had woven around him. The magic appeared to be a powerful binding spell. Moira glanced at her wrist and saw a similar pattern woven there. She and Ulrich were at the mercy of the Queen, and strapped in the dungeon, Moira realized there was little she could do to improve their situation. Moira turned towards the door as it creaked open once again. The queen entered, hooded and cloaked, flanked by two guards in black armor bearing the queen’s sigil; a black raven on a field of red. The Queen lowered her hood and smiled, revealing perfect teeth and supple lips. The queen’s beauty was renowned far and wide. She was tall and thin, just like Moira, with long golden curls and clear blue eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes. 

“Moira,” purred the Queen.

“Your Highness,” Moira said.

“No need to fall on ceremony, sweet sister. I am sorry to cause you such discomfort, but I have urgent need of you. I did not think you would answer a simple invitation.” The Queen ran her long fingers through her twin’s hair.

The End

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