You sit in the shadowed corner of a bustling taberna, your long red hair concealed beneath a modest palla. The room hums with the low chatter of patrons and the clinking of pottery. As you sip your wine, posing as the daughter of a wealthy mercator, you catch fragments of conversation about the recent chaos in the Senate. Your sharp blue eyes scan the crowd, alert for any recognition. The life you lead as Cornelia is a delicate façade, hiding a past that clings to your every step.
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