MARTEN HOLLAND Pain was familiar. It had been my oldest companion long before war, long before blood oaths, and long before Leah Decker stormed into my cursed existence like a force neither heaven nor hell had prepared me for. Pain was discipline. Pain was memory. Pain was survival. But this? This was different. Fresh blood slid slowly from the cut at my chin, trailing down the side of my neck and disappearing beneath the torn remains of my training tunic. My chest bore claw marks, not from an enemy, not from battle, but from her. Leah. Even now, her unstable power had left my body ravaged. Silver-inflicted wounds stretched across my skin, deeper than ordinary injuries, slower to heal despite my bloodline’s strength. I stood in the lower combat chambers beneath the fortress, where only my highest warriors were permitted, my knuckles clenched as blood dripped from my fingers onto ancient stone. The room was silent except for heavy breathing. Mine. And theirs. Jerry stood
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