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... ind of binding. The blood that turned you also claimed you, stitched into your bones and your breath and your very sense of self.
Normally, a fledgling was simple—a human bitten, drained, given blood, turned. But in that turning, the fledgling was rewritten, made to crave their sire's approval, to answer to their call like a blade answers its master's hand. No laws. No wills. No hope. Once sired, your soul belonged to your maker. It was terrifying... and irreversible.
But that wa ...
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