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... torn breath, a sliver of sound barely audible over the soft crackle of burning leaves and the distant drip of blood off bent steel.

He wasn’t standing. He wasn’t kneeling. He wasn’t anything anymore.

His arm was twisted backward, bone jutting out at a grotesque angle. One eye had been split open, its white turned to a pink mess of bursting vessels. His ears leaked blood like a slow, steady stream, and one of his legs—no, his leg—was still in Atlas’s hand, dangling like meat.

...

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