PREVIEW

... ibe it. Mavus and I moved through the dust-choked tent like twin blades carving through fog—every breath a prelude, every step a punctuation mark in some dark, unwritten opera. No music but the thrum of blood and the occasional symphony of grinding sand beneath our feet.

His fist clipped my jaw—again—and stars bloomed across my vision like drunk fireflies. I stumbled back, only to pivot off a collapsing scaffold and launch myself into a low, sweeping kick.

He leapt over it.

< ...

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