![]() Something unnerving about the way Leonzio’s face was turned so as to reflect in the mirror across the room. Perhaps it was merely situational, but there was something oppressive about the darkness nipping at the edges of that orange glow. The disciple’s bedroom was cold, and dim candlelight cast shadows on the gilded walls. Despite it all, his expression was peaceful, the curve of his mouth soft, as if he’d resigned himself unflinchingly to death.ĭamian leaned away from Leonzio’s body, repressing a shiver. His pallid lips were slick with a distasteful layer of foam, and the veins lacing his forearms stood out in stark, bruise-like relief. Leonzio Bianchi, former disciple of Death, showed every indication of having been poisoned. ![]() He adjusted the collar of his Palazzo-issued coat, hoping it might ease some of the pressure building in his throat. The night had long shifted closer to dawn than dusk, and it was increasingly difficult to focus on the dead disciple before him. ![]()
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