🐺ADRIAN🐺I was ten years old again.The blood was warm on my hands, dripping from my fingers and pooling on the stone floor beneath me. It was thick and sticky, and I could feel it drying on my skin, cracking as I curled my fingers into fists. The smell of it filled my nostrils, metallic and sweet, and I could taste it on my tongue, copper and salt. Dead wolves surrounded me, their bodies twisted and broken, their eyes open and staring at nothing. The silence was the worst part. After the screams, after the chaos, there was nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the slow drip of blood falling from my hands onto the stone.I recognized some of them. There was Marcus, who had taught me to hold a sword when I was five, his kind eyes now empty, his mouth frozen open in a silent scream. There was Lena, who had braided my mother's hair and always saved me an extra piece of bread at dinner, her body crumpled against the wall, her apron soaked red. There was old Thomas, who ha
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