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Chapter 17: What Bleeds, Runs
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... e, and Thorin’s scream, which didn’t fully crest the wet, willow-shadowed air before collapsing into a fit of hacking.
Apollo dropped the flask onto the grass, only distantly aware of the way his hands shook, of the way the chemical burn feathered the edges of his tongue and nose.
His vision tunneled down to Thorin’s face, spit-flecked beard, the brow knotted in a hatred higher than pain.
The caustic caught, hissed, and the wound sloughed off old blood and tissue in a run ...
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