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- Somehow he’d stumbled from the farm at Cold Coast to the edge of the Dyrewood forest, with the Wolfshead blade still embedded firmly in his stomach. Although the wound ached, a scab had already formed over the top of it. The cut itself, where jagged inches of flesh had been torn apart, had already begun to knit itself back together again. How this was possible he might have pondered a while longer, had the sword in his stomach not demanded his attention a little more urgently. What should have been a fatal wound now held about as much discomfort as a severe case of gut rot.
- Drew had grasped the hilt between both his hands and pulled, once. The sword flew out, a fresh gout of blood following. A new pain struck him as the wound reopened, a dizzy spell washing over him. But before long a strange healing overcame him, and the blood stopped flowing. Then he’d heard the horns and instinctively run toward the dark cover of the forest, the Wolfshead sword now his only protection.
- B1 P2 C2
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