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EIGHTY-THREE | UNDERWATER

Elijah

The mossmen were everywhere. Elijah’s arm sagged; he hoisted it back up and drove it through the wooden belly of the nearest mossman. It creaked and groaned and then, before Elijah had even blinked, another sprouted from the hedgerow and took its place.

He couldn’t see Caslein anymore. His Gamma was under there somewhere, still fighting, if the grunts and curses coming from his direction were anything to go by. Elijah sought out a glimpse of dark skin or textured hair, but there was only moss and branch and stone.

But he wouldn’t give in. These were creatures bound together by magic, not mortal enemies of flesh and blood. They were harder to defeat, but Elijah had something they didn’t. The capacity to love.

He dove into the fray. Bony hands yanked at his hair, at his ears; he winced, his self-consciousness so ingrained that he was afraid of even the mossmen seeing the truth about him. He thrust his sword in all directions, tingles scraping down his spine like chalk on blackboa
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