PREVIEW

... e out all distractions. The sapping chill of the cold stone against the threadbear burlap of his smock. The itch between his shoulders. The just barely audible rustle of footsteps in some far off hallway.

All of it was driven out, in favour of focusing on the slowing rhythm of his heart, and the steady bellow of his lungs.

An old centring trick—one Father had taught him young, to get him through the trials of learning the more…brutal parts of their legacy. He’d used it much, conf ...

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