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Lucien was still perched on the baker’s back like a miserable, shaking prince on a meat throne.
His legs had gone numb ages ago. His breathing? Ragged and uneven. And that stupid wooden leg he was holding like a sword? It now felt heavier than his will to live.
What started as self-defense now felt like an Olympic sport for the chronically exhausted. His skin was clammy, his vision was politely asking to black out, and the blood on his temple had dried into some avant-garde a ...
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