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... the weight of Myrrh's lifeless body cradled in my arms. Her warmth hasn’t yet faded, her skin still soft and pliable, and her expression peaceful, as if she’s merely sleeping. But the reality is far grimmer—blood continues to spill from the jagged wound in her chest, painting her pale skin in a ghastly crimson.

I glance at my trembling hand, the one supporting her back, and it's slick with blood. Her blood. It's everywhere, coating my arms, staining the ground. A shudder races down my sp ...

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