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... ord of the White Flame resting in his palm.

All eyes were on him—the elders, the disciples, the women of the inner court—watching, expecting a boy humbled by glory, or a man dazzled by acceptance. But Phillip’s fingers gripped the hilt coldly. He neither bowed in gratitude nor showed awe.

The sword sat in his hand like a dead fish.

A thin smile tugged at his lips.

Then—SHHHRAAANG!—he raised the sword high and brought it down in a clean, sharp arc.

CRAAAACK ...

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