Fowler turned, hateful eyes falling to her hand on the Immortal Blade, and he laughed. Laughed. “If you think you’re so tough with that sword, little girl—” Rua unsheathed the blade and sliced it through the air before he could say another word. Across the table, Fowler’s eyes bugged as his hand grasped the gaping wound at his throat. Blood began pouring down his gray tunic, dying it crimson, as he burbled, choking on his last breaths. With a loud, wet smack, he hit the floor. Rua knew it made her as evil as the fae around her, but she smirked at the shock on his face as he went down. Let them
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