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The world was reduced to movement, blood, and breath — and even that was fading into the dull hum of endurance.
His body was worn down, exhausted from constant fighting, his latest weapons bent, and still the Francians pressed forward, chanting their saint’s name as if she would rise from the muck and mire to save them.
He spat mud from his mouth.
Enough.
Julius ripped another looted sword from its now dead owners hand and hurled it into the chest of a chargi ...
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