Zen thought back to that winter day thirteen cycles ago, to the words He With Eyes of Blood had whispered to him. Did you not call for me? Did you not cast an unspoken wish for power? For revenge? For the chance to do to them what they did to your family? He had. He had asked for all those things, and had achieved none. Instead, Zen had run in a perfect circle, coming right back to where he’d started. Except he was no longer a naive child yearning for the affection of his master, for acceptance in the world, for redemption of his soul. No, it was too late for that, and if he could achieve
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