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In the rainy night, within the corridor, the flickering flames of standing braziers, stirred by a cold gust of wind, cast menacing, claw-like shadows on the grey walls. The rain pitter-pattered, a relentless drumming that chilled the air. Splashed blood, dark and viscous, quickly spread and dyed the puddles on the ground a grim crimson.

A decapitated head, its eyes wide and vacant, having rolled through the mud, still bore a look of faint disbelief.

In the courtyard, the ...

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“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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