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... of monsters, their bodies piling high around him. Blood--thick and sticky--dripping from his sword’s edge to his fingers. His grip on the dragonbone hilt, warm from his hand and the weapon’s own core.
Now?
No warmth. No elegant hilt molded perfectly to his palm. Just a charred stick with a burnt-in sigil that read, ’stop-running’. A stick that might trip a thieving princess, sure, but definitely not take down the hulking shadow circling above them.
Behind him, Lenko’s sud ...
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