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Chapter 236: Will
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... allowing dark where fallen things festered.
Not some poet’s metaphor for hardship, but the true prison-realm, the bile at the bottom of creation where corrupted spirits gnawed on the memory of grace.
And Soren, whose soul was winter-forged, whose breath was the north wind given form, had descended into that consuming heat like some fabled knight from a cautionary tale... the kind who earns a song only because he does not live long enough to learn from his folly.
He would ...
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