The ceiling of the war room tore open with the sound of shredded canvas.

A girl in an oversized wool cardigan plummeted from the violent crackling rift, crashing directly into the lap of the most feared alpha in the realm.

It didn’t strike her.

Instead, his eyes flared molten gold.

The air in the restricted wing of Yale’s Sterling Memorial Library always tasted faintly of dust and dry rot.

It was a Tuesday evening, well past closing, and rain lashed against the stained glass windows.

Rosalind Hayes, a 24-year-old archival assistant, was elbow-deep in a newly acquired private collection.

The donor, the late billionaire Arthur Penhaligon, had been a notorious eccentric, hoarding centuries-old occult texts in his London townhouse before his estate shipped them to New Haven.

Rosalind pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose, adjusting the surgical mask she wore to protect her lungs from mold spores.

Her supervisor, Dr.

Richard Aris, had strictly forbidden her from working past 8:00, but she was obsessed with a particular ledger she had unearthed from the bottom of a steel crate.

It wasn’t bound in cowhide or goat leather.

The cover was unnervingly pale, heavy, and cold to the touch, locked with an intricate iron clasp shaped like a snarling wolf.

According to the Penhaligon estate inventory, it was simply labeled The Ihel Garden Anomaly, circa 1492.

There was no key, but as Rosalind ran her bare fingertips over the iron wolf’s snout, a sharp prick like a needle hidden in the metal pierced her index finger.

A single drop of bright red blood welled up and smeared against the binding.

“Damn it,” she hissed, reaching for a tissue.

Before she could wipe it away, the blood vanished.

It didn’t soak into the leather.

It was absorbed, swallowed by the book.

The heavy iron clasp snapped open with a sound like a breaking bone.

Rosalind froze.

A low rhythmic humming began to vibrate through the heavy oak table.

The overhead fluorescent lights flickered violently, buzzing like angry hornets, before shattering completely.

Plunged into darkness, Rosalind stumbled backward, but the book began to glow.

A harsh violet light spilled from the open pages, casting unnatural stretched shadows across the library shelves.

The air pressure in the room dropped instantly, popping her ears.

A violent gust of wind whipped through the subterranean archive, tearing centuries-old pages from their bindings and swirling them into a vortex.

Rosalind tried to scream, but the wind stole the breath from her lungs.

The floor beneath her feet simply ceased to exist.

She fell.

True.

Something to Turion.

In the war room of the Obsidian Fortress of Highmount, King Dominic Castile was losing his patience.

The heavy circular map table was covered in carved wooden markers depicting a war that had been bleeding his kingdom dry for 3 years.

Dominic, alpha of the dominant northern pack, leaned his massive frame over the table.

The firelight catching the scars that ran along his jaw, and the heavy steel of his broadsword strapped to his back.

“The southern passes are completely compromised,” General Harrison barked, slamming a fist onto the map.

“King Alister’s rogue factions have bypassed the Darrel Valley.

They aren’t just slaughtering our patrols, Dominic.

They are using silver-laced ash.

We lost 20 enforcers in a single night.”

Beta Wyatt, standing to Dominic’s right, crossed his arms, his expression grim.

“Our borders are stretched too thin.

If Alister’s forces cross the frozen river by the next full moon, we won’t have the numbers to hold the citadel.

We need an alliance with the eastern covens.”

A low, menacing growl rattled in Dominic’s chest, silencing the room.

Every general and pack leader stiffened, instinctively submitting to the crushing aura of their alpha.

“I will not beg witches for salvation,” Dominic said, his voice a lethal, quiet rumble that commanded absolute obedience.

“Alister’s rogues are undisciplined.

They rely on ambush and dirty tactics.

We fall back to the canyon, bottleneck them, and I will tear Alister’s throat out myself.”

“Sire, with respect,” Harrison argued, his brow beaded with sweat, “the prophecy of the shifting tides.”

“I don’t deal in bedtime stories, Harrison.

I deal blood and steel.

We march at dawn.”

Before Harrison could protest, a sound like a thunderclap detonated inside the heavy stone walls of the war room.

The massive iron chandeliers swung violently, showering the generals in hot wax.

Above the map table, the solid stone ceiling seemed to fracture, spitting open to reveal a swirling, violent tear in reality.

Weapons hissed as they were drawn from their scabbards.

A dozen battle-hardened werewolves shifted into fighting stances, their eyes flashing, teeth elongating.

From the violet rift, a shower of white paper snowed down upon the map table.

And then, a body fell.

Rosalind crashed downward screaming, expecting to shatter against the cold library floor.

Instead, she slammed into something rock-hard, but undeniably alive.

The impact knocked the wind out of her, sending her tumbling onto the map table, scattering wooden markers before she rolled off the edge.

A massive arm caught her midair.

Rosalind gasped, her vision spinning.

She was suspended off the ground, held tightly against a chest constructed of solid muscle and leather armor.

She blinked rapidly, her eyes focusing on a face that belonged on a medieval tapestry.

Hard, aristocratic features, a sharp jawline dusted with dark stubble, and eyes that were shifting from a terrifying luminous gold back to a piercing human gray.

King Dominic stared down at the trembling creature in his arms.

She was tiny, draped in strange knitted garments that offered no protection against the winter chill.

But it wasn’t her sudden appearance that paralyzed the deadliest alpha in the realm.

It was her scent.

Beneath the sharp metallic tang of ozone and fear, an intoxicating aroma hit Dominic like a physical blow.

Vanilla, rain-soaked earth, and old parchment.

It was a scent that bypassed his rational mind and struck directly at his wolf a primal, possessing instinct that he hadn’t felt in his 30 years of life.

It was the scent of an omega, a submissive purebred female, a classification of werewolf that had been hunted to extinction three centuries ago.

“Assassin,” General Harrison roared.

“Kill the witch.”

Swords thrust forward.

Three generals lunged toward the table, their weapons aimed directly at Rosalind’s back.

A monstrous, earth-shaking roar erupted from Dominic.

It wasn’t the shout of a man, it was the raw, unhinged fury of an apex predator.

The sheer force of his alpha command slammed into the room, driving two of the generals straight to their knees.

Dominic spun, tucking Rosalind forcefully against his chest, shielding her entirely with his armored back.

With his free hand, he drew his broadsword in a blur of motion, parrying Harrison’s blade with a clash of steel that sent sparks flying into the dim room.

“Stand down,” Dominic bellowed, his fangs fully extended, his eyes glowing a blinding, unnatural gold.

“Anyone who takes another step toward her will lose their head.”

The war room fell into a deathly, suffocating silence.

Harrison lowered his sword, his hand shaking as he fought against the alpha’s oppressive aura.

“Dominic, sire, she fell from a magical rift.

She could be carrying a plague or a curse from Alister.

She is unarmed, you fool.”

“Dominic snarled, his chest heaving.

He looked down at the woman trembling in his grasp.

She was hyperventilating, her wide, terrified brown eyes darting around the stone walls.

The swords, the animalistic features of the men surrounding her.

“I I I Rosalind stammered, her voice cracking.

“I was in the library, Dr.

Aris.

Where is the emergency exit?”

Dominic frowned.

Her words were a strange dialect, sharp and oddly structured, yet he understood the terror in them perfectly.

He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

His wolf clawed at the inside of his mind, demanding he carry her away, lock her in his highest tower, and kill any male who looked at her.

He forced the beast down, taking a slow, steadying breath.

“Clear the room,” Dominic ordered, his voice returning to a deadly calm.

“My king, we are in the middle of a war council,” Beta Wyatt started.

“I said, clear the room.”

Within seconds, the generals filed out, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind them.

Dominic sheathed his sword and slowly set Rosalind down on her feet.

She immediately stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the map table, her hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Please,” Rosalind breathed, tears welling in her eyes.

“I don’t have money.

If this is a kidnapping, I’m literally drowning in student debt.

Just just tell me what historical reenactment camp this is.”

Dominic stepped forward slowly, as if approaching a skittish deer.

Up close, his scent was overwhelming.

It was a miracle the other generals hadn’t noticed it over the smell of the rift and their own aggression, but once the shock wore off, they would.

Every unmated male in the fortress would go feral for her.

“You are in Highmount Fortress,” Dominic said softly, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room.

“I am King Dominic Castile, and you?

You dropped out of the sky.

What are you?”

“I’m an archivist.”

Rosalind cried out, gripping the edge of the table to stay upright.

“I live in New Haven, Connecticut.

What do you mean, King?”

She looked around the room frantically.

The stone walls, the torches, the massive hand-drawn map of the continent she had never seen before.

Her eyes fell to the floor.

Among the scattered, torn pages from the library lay the heavy leather book with the iron wolf clasp.

Rosalind gasped, diving for it.

The Penhaligon book.

“It bit me.

The clasp it cut my finger, and then the lights went out.”

Dominic’s eyes tracked her movement.

As she lifted the book, his breath hitched.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them in an instant.

He gently but firmly grabbed her wrist.

His touch was burning hot, sending a bizarre electric shock straight up Rosalind’s arm.

“Where did you get this?”

Dominic demanded, his eyes locked on the iron wolf.

“A private estate donation.

Let go of me.”

“This is the royal ledger of Athalgard,” Dominic murmured, awe and horror mixing in his tone.

“It was stolen from my ancestors 300 years ago.

It contains the true bloodlines of the packs, the original treaties.”

He looked from the book to Rosalind’s face, his intense gaze stripping her bare.

“And only royal blood or the blood of a true omega can open its lock.”

Rosalind stared at him, her mind completely short-circuiting.

Omega?

Packs?

Before she could form a rational thought, the heavy oak doors to the war room violently burst open.

Beta Wyatt stood in the doorway, bleeding from a deep gash across his forehead, his sword drawn.

“Sire,” Wyatt yelled, coughing up blood.

“The citadel wards have fallen.

We have a breach.”

Dominic stepped in front of Rosalind instantly, his hand dropping to his hilt.

“Alister’s army.”

“No!”

Wyatt gasped, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

“Assassins.

The northern shadows.

They bypassed the outer gates completely.

They didn’t come to conquer, Dominic.

They’re tracking a magical signature.”

Wyatt’s bloody gaze shifted past Dominic, landing directly on Rosalind and the book clutched to her chest.

“They came for the anomaly.

They came for her.”

The sound of clashing steel and screaming echoed down the stone corridor.

Alister’s elite killers were already inside the castle, and they were slaughtering their way toward the war room.

Dominic grabbed Rosalind by the waist, effortlessly lifting her off her feet once more.

“Hold onto me,” he growled, kicking the war table over to form a barricade.

“And whatever happens, do not let go of that book.”

The war room doors splintered inward with a deafening crash.

A tide of men in pitch-black leather and obscured faces flooded the chamber.

They didn’t move like ordinary soldiers.

They moved like liquid shadows, their curved blades glinting with a deadly iridescent sheen.

“Silver, stay behind me.”

Dominic roared, his voice vibrating with a frequency that rattled Rosalind’s teeth.

He didn’t wait for the assassins to close the distance.

The alpha king launched himself over the overturned map table, a blur of muscle and feral fury.

His broadsword cleaved through the air, shattering the first assassin’s parry and sending the man crashing into the stone hearth.

Dominic wasn’t just fighting as a man, his movements were distinctly lupine savage, impossibly fast and brutally efficient.

Rosalind crouched behind the heavy oak table, clutching the leather-bound book to her chest, her knuckles white.

Her mind desperately tried to rationalize the violence unfolding inches away.

This was a hallucination, a stress-induced psychotic break brought on by working 80-hour weeks at Yale.

But the hot spray of blood that splashed against the wooden floorboards, reeking of copper, was undeniably horrifyingly real.

An assassin slipped past Dominic’s guard, leaping off the wall to vault over the barricade.

He landed gracefully in front of Rosalind, his silver blade raised.

“Got her.”

The assassin hissed, his eyes locking onto the book.

Before the blade could descend, a massive clawed hand wrapped around the man’s throat from behind.

Dominic hoisted the assassin entirely off the ground, lifting him like a ragdoll.

With a sickening crunch, Dominic snapped his neck and tossed the body aside.

But the opening cost him.

Two more shadows lunged, their silver-coated daggers slicing through the heavy leather armor at Dominic’s ribs.

The alpha let out a guttural roar, backhanding one attacker across the room while driving the pommel of his sword into the skull of the other.

The smell of burning flesh suddenly filled the air.

The silver blades had left sizzling, blackened wounds on Dominic’s side.

“Wyatt, the great.”

Dominic commanded, his breath ragged as he scooped Rosalind up with his left arm, ignoring her squeak of protest.

Beta Wyatt, covered in his own blood, kicked fiercely at a heavy iron ring embedded in the floorboards.

The stone floor groaned, and a hidden trapdoor swung open, revealing a pitch-black abyss.

“Go, sire.

I’ll hold the choke point.”

Wyatt yelled, raising his broadsword to meet the next wave of attackers pouring through the doorway.

Dominic didn’t hesitate.

Ripping Rosalind tightly against his chest, he stepped into the void.

They plummeted into the darkness.

Rosalind squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the crushing impact, but Dominic twisted in midair, absorbing the shock of the landing with his incredibly muscular legs.

They hit the ground, sliding down a steep, slick stone ramp, plunging deeper into the bowels of Highmount Fortress.

When they finally came to a halt, the air was freezing and smelled of damp earth and ancient dust.

The faint sounds of the battle above were muffled by hundreds of feet of solid rock.

Dominic dropped heavily to his knees, releasing Rosalind.

He leaned against the damp cavern wall, clutching his side.

In the pitch blackness, his eyes were two glowing orbs of molten gold, illuminating the faint mist of his ragged breaths.

“Are you Are you dying?”

Rosalind whispered, her voice trembling as she crawled toward him.

The heavy book dragged across the dirt.

“Silver,” Dominic grunted, his voice tight with agony.

“It poisons the blood, halts the healing process.”

Rosalind’s eyes adjusted to the faint, eerie glow radiating from the alpha.

She could see the black, necrotic veins spreading outward from the cuts on his ribs.

Panic flared, but a strange, instinctual calm suddenly washed over her.

It wasn’t her own calmness.

It felt like it was radiating from the book, humming against her palm.

“Let me look,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

She unbuttoned her oversized wool cardigan and tore a large strip of fabric from the hem of her cotton undershirt.

“Do not touch the blood,” Dominic warned, his golden eyes narrowing.

“It burns.”

“I work with hydrochloric acid to restore 16th century vellum,” Rosalind retorted, adrenaline replacing her fear.

“I can handle a cut.”

She pressed the cloth firmly against his side.

The moment her bare hands brushed his burning skin, a jolt of electricity arced between them.

Dominic gasped, his back arching, his claws scraping violently against the stone floor.

But he didn’t push her away.

Instead, a deep, rumbling purr began to vibrate in his chest.

“Your scent,” he murmured, his glowing eyes locking onto hers.

The feral edge in his gaze softened into something profoundly intense, bordering on reverence.

“It takes the pain away.

The silver, it’s retreating.”

Rosalind stared in shock.

Beneath her makeshift bandage, the black veins were visibly shrinking, the scorched flesh knitting back together at an impossible speed.

“How is that happening?”

“You are an omega,” Dominic breathed, reaching up to gently touch a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her face.

His fingers were hot, calloused, and remarkably tender.

“The healers, the anchors of our kind.

We thought your bloodline was eradicated during the great purge of 1792.”

“I’m a human from Connecticut,” Rosalind argued, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Are you?”

Dominic asked softly.

He pointed to the leather ledger.

“That book is the Athalgard anomaly.

It It smuggled out of this realm over two centuries ago by a sympathizer who hid the last surviving Omega children in the human world.

It passed through the hands of Sir Hans Sloane, hidden among the occult collections of the British Museum before it vanished.

Rosalind’s eyes widened.

Arthur Penhaligon?

The billionaire who donated the collection to Yale.

Arthur Pendleton, Dominic corrected.

A banished noble of the Eastern coven.

He must have used the human front of the Skull and Bones Society at Yale to hide the true nature of his wealth and his charge protecting the dormant Omega line until the rift could be opened again.

Until you were ready.

I’m not ready for any of this.

Rosalind cried, clutching her head.

I was cataloging tax records an hour ago.

And now you are the most valuable creature in two worlds, a cold echoing voice rang out through the darkness.

A torch flared to life 50 yards down the tunnel.

Standing in the flickering light wiping blood from his blade was General Harrison.

Behind him stood half a dozen surviving Northern Shadow assassins.

General?

Dominic snarled, pushing himself to his feet and stepping protectively in front of Rosalind.

You orchestrated the ward failure.

You let Alister’s dogs into my home.

Alister offered me the Northern territory, Dominic, Harrison sneered, stepping closer.

All I had to do was lower the gates and hand over the anomaly.

The prophecy spoke of the Omega returning to turn the tides of the war.

King Alister intends to use her to breed an army of pure bloods that will wipe your pack off the face of the earth.

Dominic’s growl shook the dust from the cavern ceiling.

The sheer magnitude of his killing intent was suffocating.

You will die screaming for that.

You are exhausted, sire.

Poisoned by silver.

Harrison mocked, raising his blade.

Take the king’s head, keep the girl alive.

The cavern erupted into a whirlwind of lethal violence.

The swiving assassins of the Northern Shadows rushed forward, their silver-coated blades glinting maliciously in the stuttering orange light of the torches.

Dominic met them with a ferocious, earth-shattering roar, but Rosalind could clearly see the devastating fatigue dragging at his massive limbs.

The silver poisoning from his earlier wounds hadn’t fully cleared his system, and the necrotic veins creeping along his ribs were a stark reminder of his mortality.

He was fighting on sheer, unadulterated willpower.

He parried two rapid, synchronized strikes, his broadsword sparking violently against their daggers, but his movements lacked their previous lightning-fast fluidity.

A third assassin, moving with the eerie silence of a phantom, slipped low beneath Dominic’s guard, slashing upward.

The silver blade bit deeply into Dominic’s thigh.

The Alpha let out a guttural hiss of pain, stumbling as his leg gave out.

He crashed heavily to one knee on the unaccommodating stone floor, using his sword as a crutch to keep himself from collapsing entirely.

Dominic, Rosalind screamed, her voice cracking as she scrambled forward, her instincts overriding her terror.

Stay back, Rosalind, he ordered, his voice a ragged, breathless command.

He threw a desperate, sweeping block to deflect a lethal thrust aimed directly at his exposed neck, the sheer force of the impact sending a violent shudder up his arm.

General Harrison threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing cruelly off the damp subterranean walls.

He hoisted his weapon and began walking slowly, methodically toward Rosalind, relishing his absolute victory.

A pity, truly, Harrison sneered, his eyes raking over Dominic’s kneeling form with pure disgust.

Such a magnificent, legendary creature wasted on a dying, stubborn king.

You should have forged the alliance, Dominic.

You should have bowed to the shifting tides.

Now your pack will burn, and your lineage will be nothing more than ash.

Harrison turned his predatory gaze to Rosalind.

Come here, little Omega.

King Alister has grand plans for you.

With an Omega chained to his throne, he won’t just rule the north, he will command the very souls of every wolf on this continent.

Rosalind backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs with the frantic rhythm of a trapped bird.

The cold stone of the cavern wall hit her spine, trapping her.

She looked down at the heavy leather book clutched tightly in her hand.

The iron wolf clasp was no longer just warm, it was searing hot, glowing with a fierce, blinding violet light that cast eerie shadows across the cavern.

The single drop of her blood she had spilled back in the Yale library was suddenly pulsing on the cover, spreading through the ancient, pale leather like a network of liquid glowing veins.

The anchors of our kind, Dominic’s words echoed in her mind, cutting through the panic.

Peacekeepers.

She didn’t know how to fight.

She had never held a sword, let alone fought in a medieval, subterranean war.

But as Harrison reached out, his thick, calloused fingers preparing to grab her by her hair and drag her away, an ancient, dormant instinct to violently awoke within Rosalind’s blood.

It was a staggering genetic memory passed down through centuries of hidden ancestors who had walked among kings and subjugated beasts.

Suddenly, the truth of her existence crystallized in her mind.

Omegas were not mere healers, they were not breeders meant to be chained to thrones.

They were the absolute, divine subjugators of the feral mind.

They were the balance.

Rosalind stopped retreating.

Her trembling ceased entirely.

She stood tall, her spine snapping straight, and her wide, terrified brown eyes shifted, hardening into something ancient and unfathomably powerful.

She met Harrison’s triumphant gaze head-on.

Kneel.

She didn’t shout the command.

She didn’t have to.

The single word ripped from her throat with a crushing, invisible, and terrifying weight.

It wasn’t just sound, it was a physical manifestation of absolute authority.

A massive shockwave of pure, concentrated power blasted outward from her body, carrying the suffocatingly heavy scent of vanilla, rain-soaked earth, and raw ozone.

It hit the assassins like a runaway freight train.

Harrison’s eyes went wide with sudden, unadulterated terror.

The primal beast inside him, his inner wolf, screamed in absolute, terrified submission.

His knees buckled instantly, slamming into the hard stone floor with a bone-shattering crack that echoed through the tunnel.

He dropped his sword as if it burned him, his hands flying to his throat as he gasped for air.

Completely paralyzed by the crushing gravity of the Omega’s aura, the remaining Northern Shadow assassins collapsed just as quickly, dropping their silver weapons and pressing their foreheads forcefully into the damp dirt.

They began whining in pathetic, high-pitched sounds of absolute surrender.

Their bodies trembling uncontrollably under her psychic weight.

Even Dominic, panting heavily on one knee a few yards away, bowed his head low to the ground, but unlike the others, his golden eyes looked up at her through his dark hair, shining with overwhelming awe and feral devotion.

Rosalind stood perfectly still, the glowing book illuminating her face.

The power coursing through her veins was intoxicating, terrifying, and completely undeniable.

She wasn’t just an archival assistant from Connecticut anymore.

She was royalty awakened.

Dominic, Rosalind whispered, her voice softening.

She consciously reeled in the heavy aura, pulling it back just enough for him to move freely while keeping the traitors pinned beneath her will.

The Alpha King rose to his feet.

His wounds were still bleeding, his arm a shredded, but his movements were terrifyingly deliberate.

He walked slowly past the paralyzed, whimpering assassins, the silver daggers forgotten on the floor until he stopped directly in front of his traitorous general.

Harrison looked up, tears of sheer, agonizing panic streaming down his face.

He tried to speak, to beg, but Rosalind’s command kept his jaw locked.

Treason is punishable by death, Dominic said, his deep voice void of any mercy or emotion.

With a swift, brutal, and merciless swing of his broadsword, Dominic decapitated General Harrison.

The heavy thud of the body slumping to the floor sent a fresh wave of whimpers through the remaining assassins, but none dared to move an inch.

Dominic calmly sheathed his bloody sword and turned his back on the carnage, stepping toward Rosalind.

The blood splattered across his face and the savage violence he had just committed should have terrified her to her core, but as he stepped into her personal space, she only felt an overwhelming magnetic pull of safety and belonging.

He dropped to one knee before her, bowing his head in true reverence.

He took her small, trembling hand in his massive, bloodstained one, his grip impossibly gentle, and pressed a hot, lingering kiss to her knuckles.

My king, Rosalind started, her voice shaking slightly as the adrenaline finally began to ebb, leaving her breathless.

“No,” Dominic corrected softly.

He looked up at her, his golden eyes searing into her soul, promising her the world, the stars, and the blood of anyone who dared threaten her.

“You are the one who commands the pack.

You are the sovereign of our soul.

I am just the sword that protects you.”

He stood up, his massive frame towering over her, and gently pulled her flush against his solid armored chest.

His hand tangled securely in her hair, tilting her head back to meet his gaze.

“You belong to High Mountain now.

You are my mate, and together we are going to march on King Alister, tear his kingdom to the ground, and end this war forever.”

Rosalind looked deeply into his eyes.

The memories of her cramped apartment, the dusty archives, and her mundane life dissolved into the shadows of the catacombs.

She felt the ancient magic of the Ithal Guard anomaly pulsing against her side, beating in perfect rhythm with the fiercely loyal heart of the alpha holding her.

“Then we better get out of this basement,” Rosalind breathed, a small fierce smile touching her lips as she leaned into his warmth.

“Lead the way, alpha.”

And that concludes the epic tale of Rosalind and King Dominic.

From the dusty shelves of Yale to the bloody catacombs of High Mountain, our omega has finally claimed her true power and her alpha king.

Will they defeat King Alister and unite the realm?

Let us know what you think of this ending in the comments.

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See you next time.