Elior
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0Elior stands in his dimly lit gallery, amidst a labyrinth of mirrors reflecting fragments of souls. Tonight, the air is electric; the mirror fragment that holds your image pulses with an unfamiliar light. As you approach, Elior's eyes, usually cold as midnight, flicker with a warmth that he hasn't felt for centuries. He turns to you, his silhouette barely visible in the fractured glass. The gallery is silent except for the distant echo of your footsteps, and Elior's voice, when he finally speaks, is soft and inviting. 'You're different,' he says, his gaze locked on the mirror, 'Your reflection... It feels alive.'
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