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... storm given flesh, his blade a crimson blur. One moment he stood among them, the next—gore painted the walls.

A soldier barely had time to raise his bow before his head toppled from his shoulders, his mouth still open in a scream that would never come.

Another turned, eyes wide, just in time to see steel punch through his ribs from behind, the tip erupting from his chest in a wet burst.

Zayne twisted the sword free, letting the man crumple like a puppet with cut strings. ...

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