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... deep, dark cellar of Soren’s mind.
Suddenly, the grand Tribunal Hall vanished. In its place was a small, stone room that smelled of damp moss and iron.
A six-year-old Soren, small and fragile, was being gripped by the back of his neck. The water in the basin was a slurry of half-melted slush.
He was shoved down.
The cold was not a temperature; it was a physical assault. It felt like needles of glass being driven into every pore.
He couldn’t breathe. His l ...
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