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... kull while his steps echoed against the cold stone of the cloister.

Clac, clac, clac.

He walked with the fake calm of a monk going to pray, although inside he was screaming.

’Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’

He looked at his hands and saw the black ink was still there, staining his fingertips as if it were the necrosis of a corpse. It had been too efficient, too perfect, and now he had Father Marius’s attention, which usually ended in an interrogation cell with rusty tool ...

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