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... harp, sudden, and demanding.
Maximus walked like he owned the whole damn church, boots clinking with arrogance.
Beside him, Jonathan gave a slow, solemn shake of his head.
The kind of shake that says we're fucked, but with holy flair.
"Not yet, my prince."
He said, hands folded like he was about to bless a newborn—not deliver political treason.
Jonathan's robes were immaculate.
Starched, pressed, and glowing with that fake-ass piety.
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