ROBED ONE: 2

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An insignificant figure was slouched on a chair, head down and shoulders slumped. He had thin brown hair that draped over his eyes and accented facial features. His eyes were sunken pits that restrained a hopeless man's emotions and desires.

To do his duty.

Royle closed them, yearning to never open them again, to never have to experience the cruelties of reality, to never have to face the music.

Azmir Duran. The only man to show him any notice. Any honour.

And he's going to die.

Royle groaned as he reached the door of the inn, stepping out into the freezing, silent, desolate city.

And what will I do? Save him?

Frothing, raging emotions hurled within him like a tempest. They waged a war inside him, putting up wall after wall to block out reality until he was lost in a labyrinth of his own thoughts and emotions.

At least then I'll feel something.

He gasped, dropping to his knees.

All went black.

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