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Hestkona, the exiled.
The night wind caressed his bare torso, mingling the scent of damp earth with the iron tang of dried blood on his arms.
It wasn’t his.
Nor was it entirely Hrossmaður’s.
His mentor.
His second father.
He himself had handed her the very blade he’d trained her with, his eyes already clouded by the corruption that turned his kind into nameless beasts.
—Hestkona... only you can...
His sword.
His last command.
She obeyed.