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... eno Mark, a swirling vortex of shadow and light, pulsing like a wound torn between worlds.

Its edges churned with an otherworldly energy, tendrils of darkness curling outward, whispering of danger and power in a language he couldn't grasp.

The air crackled, an electric hum prickling his skin, stirring the hairs on his neck. His fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening, a resolve hardening in his chest—forged in grief, tempered by desperation.

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[Excerpt]

“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

“Atticus!” Daphne screamed. “I don’t want any heads! Let them go.”

“Fair enough.” Atticus shrugged, and flicked his fingers.

There were two identical cracks as both necks snapped at once.

Daphne gasped, horrified. This man, her husband, had just killed two men with a flick of his finger, as though he was snuffing out candles.

“I told you to let them go!” Daphne cried out.

“Yes, I let them go,” Atticus said. Then, his eyes darkened. “To receive divine judgment from the heavens.”

……………………………………………………………

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