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... the tent, erected by the werewolves for a night’s rest on the long trek back to the fortress-city.

In his hand was a bottle of surprisingly fine whiskey, smuggled into the rescue supplies by Arkai’s men. It seemed a werewolf’s priorities remained admirably clear...

He took a long pull from the bottle, looking like a being who usually sipped celestial nectar but had currently decided that mortal oblivion had its... occasions.

Arkai sat beside him, helpless, awkward. More t ...

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