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... the air, its barbed hook seeking my neck. I batted it aside, lunged forward, and then retreated again with half a curse bitten off as the polearm stabbed at my ankles.
“What’s the matter, Headsman?” Lord Emery Planter, the Earl of Strekke, mocked me with a contemptuous disdain only an aristo could conjure. “Not used to your victims fighting back?”
We stood in the great hall of Emery’s own castle, lit by the silver moonlight beaming through the high windows and the orange flames ...
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