78.

“She has been born Markless, Your Majesty. Her skin is whole and clear.” The night’s winds tore the trees of their winter coats, and the Axemen set to task stiffly, gritting fang against the numbness in their loins, the maddening fire of missing digits. The howling, freezing hills sung a dirge of silver moonlight; beside the royal hearth was the princess cooed to sleep.

grh

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