“The Storm Knight fought like both his namesakes. He rode to battle atop a cloud, a snarling spear of lightning in one hand, a shield broad as the sky in the other. No foe could withstand him, and no friend knew fear when standing next to him. Unjust blows slid from his armor unnoticed, and no one could ignore his commands when he spoke them with thunder. On his left marched a phalanx of thunderheads, their bolts ready to strike down monsters. On his right waited a chorus of gales, all carrying secrets that might end a war before it ever began.” - Excerpt from the Book of Paladins.
The ghoul stumbled forward, its single remaining arm outstretched towards the nervous work crew busy repairing Azyge’s outer wall. Utterly fixated on prospective prey, the ghoul paid no attention to the handful of bodies lying around it, their rotting brain matter mixing into the stinking mud.
‘CRACK’
A palm-sized stone shot through the air and struck the ghoul right at the temple, sending it sprawling to the ground, joining its forebearers. Twenty meters away, atop a nearby wall section, a wiry young woman with red hair winced and nearly dropped the length of rope she’d been using as a crude sling. Yara Algal, former resident of Glockmire, and current thrall to Natalie Striga, rubbed at her shoulder, trying to soothe the muscle pulled by her latest throw.
“That’s why you’re supposed to keep your stance loose, Matchstick. Getting all tense just strains the muscles and makes you less accurate,” Snarked Alia Cat-eyes, who leaned against the battlements, watching her student with faint bemusement.
Yara frowned slightly, as she tried to relax her now throbbing arm. “Why do you call me that?”
Lips quirking, Alia gestured at the thrall. “What? Matchstick? That’s obvious! You’re thin as kindling and got hair like fire. Now go take a drink while fiddler here tries again.”
Sighing, Kit struggled to fit a piece of debris into his own sling. Eyeing Alia with clear annoyance, the Magi muttered. “Are you sure this is a good idea? My arms have just started to heal, and now you’ve got me doing this!”
With a noncommittal shrug, Cat-eyes replied. “Deborah seemed to think some basic exercise would do you some good. Get all the nerves and muscles used to talking to each other again, that sort of thing. Besides, we’re going to be heading into ghoul country in the morning, and you’ll both need ways to protect yourself that don’t rely on spellcraft.”
Kit grumbled but still managed to spin up his sling, aiming the bullet at another approaching ghoul. The stone missed by a wide margin, striking the ground maybe five meters in front of it with a wet thwack. Letting out a dispirited groan, Kit stared down at his marginally less bandaged forearms and said. “If I could just use a bit of magic-”
Alia clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll get back to slinging spells soon enough, but till then, let’s keep at slinging stones. Besides, your stance wasn’t bad, you just need to get the timing of release down a little better.”
As the Magi muttered something about telekinesis and its obvious superiority over mundane weaponry, Yara looked down from her perch and watched masked work crews gather up bodies for the burn piles. It had taken three days of nearly non-stop fighting, but Azyge’s defenders managed to push the ghoul swarm back from their walls. While handfuls of tardy corpses still trickled in, these were easily dispatched by the soldiers and volunteers manning the walls. Allowing teams of unlucky laborers to start working on repairing infrastructure and burning bodies.
“Oi, we’ve got another one, you’re up, Matchstick,” came Alia’s voice, her hand pointing towards a figure tottering across the torn-up fields surrounding Azyge.
Yara picked up a stone and judged the range of her target. If successful, this would be her farthest throw yet. Spinning up her sling, the thrall kept Alia’s advice in mind as she loosed. Watching the rock’s arc, Yara let out a satisfied breath as it struck cleanly, shattering the ghoul’s skull.
Letting out an appreciative whistle, Alia slapped a merlon. “Ha! That was damn good! Now do a dozen more of those and I’ll be properly impressed.”
Eyeing the fields stretching towards the horizon, Yara decided meeting this new quota wouldn’t be hard. The oncoming ghouls were like droplets from a leaky faucet compared to the all-consuming tide of a few days earlier; annoying and manageable instead of calamitous. But the fact that Azyge was still facing this onslaught after days of brutal fighting didn’t seem a good omen to Yara. If this really was a tiny splinter of the overall swarm, then what would the trek to Harmas be like?
As Kit prepared his throw, Yara decided she needed more information, and that Alia might just be a good source. Normally, the thrall was wary of questions, as in her experience, too many of them, be they asked by her or directed at her, rarely resulted in anything good. But, she’d made Alia laugh, and amused people were generally less dangerous and more willing to humor someone beneath them.
“Is Harmas two or three days on foot from us?” Yara asked, eyes fixed on Alia’s features, seeking any sign of irritation.
Nodding appreciatively as Kit managed to hit a ghoul this time, Alia replied. “Three days, and that’s if we’re lucky. From the way Cole, Mina, and Grettir tell it, moving over infested lands isn’t easy, and not just because of ghouls. Apparently, when the Aether goes rotten, everything touched by it does as well. Plants and animals get sick; disease spreads like wildfire, and even the local spirits start acting mean. So even if Natalie’s new necro-shit keeps the ghouls off us, we’ll have plenty of other problems.”
Watching the city-warden closely, Yara decided she could push a little more. “Is that why we’re not taking any horses? The miasma?”
“In part. See, even if we could keep them fed, healthy, and uneaten by ghouls, what do we do with them once we’re actually at Harmas? Sneaking into the city isn’t going to be easy, and I doubt we’ll be able to take the horses with us. Just leaving them at the heart of all this nastiness doesn’t seem right to me.”
Alia’s expression had cooled from amusement to pensive consideration; Yara guessed she had one more question before risking the cat-blood’s annoyance. “How will we actually get into Harmas?”
Tossing Yara a rock and pointing out another approaching ghoul, Alia shrugged. “Logic says we should be able to just go in the way the ghouls came out. But my gut tells me it’s not gonna be that easy. Some jaggery or another will get in our way, and then we’ll need to get creative.”
Spitting over the wall's edge, her mood quickly souring, Alia muttered. “Maybe Cole can freeze us a bridge, or perhaps Deborah will just use her family’s old trick of parting the river.”
Letting her bullet fly, Yara winced as it struck this newest ghoul in the chest. Tumbling backwards, the animated corpse lay still for just a moment before slowly clambering to its feet, uncaring of the rib-splitting blow it had just suffered.
Letting out a frustrated growl that got Yara’s neck hairs standing up, Alia pointed at the wobbly ghoul. “That right there is why I jagging hate fighting the undead. That was a good throw and probably popped an organ or two, but since it didn’t damage muscles or nerves, the rotter can literally walk it off.”
Kit absently mused. “It's strange, isn’t it?”
As Yara and Alia looked at him, the magi gestured at the nearby cremations. “Not only do humanoid souls get stuck in their bodies after death, but those bodies reanimate as such durable but decrepit monsters. I know the temples and towers say sapience keeps a soul more firmly attached to its container, and that's why only people, not animals, suffer such a grim fate. But, where is the dividing line on sapience? I’ve heard many interesting stories about the cognition of creatures like elephants, trolls, and even some birds, but they don’t become ghouls without necromantic interference. Is there perhaps something unique about humanoids or-”
Alia shoved another stone into Kit’s hands. “You can do your magical musing later. Until you can consistently hit a ghoul at fifteen meters, you’re gonna keep practicing.”
Mina knelt upon stinking mud and let a soft stream of prayers flow past her lips. “Blessed are you, Master of Time, protector of the living, and warden of the dead. In thy name, I commend these souls to your halls, where I pray your just hand and merciful wisdom guides them through the cycle of souls.”
Eyes shut, the Priestess ran her fingers over carved bone prayer beads and tried to keep up her steady litany without breathing too deeply. Smoke swirled about Mina, coming off the cremation site she was blessing in clouds flavored by rot and incense. With so many dead, giving proper last rites to every ghoul was impossible, but that didn’t mean an effort couldn’t be made to offer a measure of respect and sanctity. To that end, Mina and the few priests of Azyge, not busy caring for the living, kept a constant prayer vigil amidst the burning corpses. It was a harrowing duty, but one Mina accepted without complaint, as she knew worse was yet to come.
Something heavy thudded to the ground near Mina, and someone started to curse before quickly silencing themselves. Glancing over, the Priestess found one of the workers, a brawny woman with haunted eyes, staring down at her dropped cargo: half a person. Cut from head to groin by a single monumental blow, the corpse’s torso was barely holding together. Mina gritted her jaw and helped the woman lift the body onto the pile, where it joined a dozen others. This wasn’t the first corpse she’d seen suffering such grievous damage, and the sight of it fed her growing worries. Cole was responsible for this carnage; he’d torn apart over a hundred ghouls in a mad rampage, and now the group needed to rely on both him and the vampire that sent him on said rampage.
How could Mina trust her life and the lives of everyone else in their group to two people who were clearly struggling to be people? In the days since the battle, Cole had been an unpleasant mix of taciturn, stoic, and conceringly driven. Avoiding others when possible, he’d thrown himself into the fight at every chance, barely taking time to eat, drink, and sleep. It was like whatever veneer of humanity he usually adopted was slowly slipping away, revealing the ill-made homunculus he truly was.
Then there was Natalie, who wasn’t showing any signs of the darkness that consumed her on the battlefield, but instead was beset by far more mundane demons, demons Mina knew unfortunately well. It was one thing to be betrayed, it was another to betray yourself. Fear, guilt, and self-doubt wracked the vampire in ways the priestess found painfully familiar. Mina had spoken to her friend a few times since the battle, trying to do her job as counselor and confidante, but the specter of Cole’s instability hung over these conversations. He was Natalie’s chief support, and without him, she struggled in more ways than one. By Mina’s reckoning, the carefully balancing act Master Time had been using to keep both Alukah and Homunculus stable was at serious risk of total collapse.
So all of this left Mina deeply, deeply worried about the next leg of their journey. A three-day march across the rot lands was going to be bad, and the group would need every advantage possible to reach Harmas without casualties. But now, two of those advantages, Cole’s expertise and Natalie’s necromancy, were unreliable. Worse still, it was concerningly feasible that either member of the cursed couple could become, not just a hindrance, but an active threat to the rest of the expedition. Even with Deborah and Grettir’s support, Mina didn’t like the odds of success, let alone survival, if neutralizing the Homunculus and Alukah was necessary.
“Are you alright, priestess?” came a voice from behind Mina, and she spun, finding one of the workers standing behind her, a swaddled corpse over one shoulder. Only then did Mina realize she’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she’d stopped praying.
Offering the worker an appreciative nod, Mina knelt beside the pile and conjured a priestly platitude to mask her internal struggle. “This is bitter work, necessary but bitter, so taking time not to drown in it is important.”
Accepting that, the laborer added another body to the pyre, and Mina forced herself to stare at the dancing flames and burning flesh. The terrible sight further entrenched her mood, and the priestess offered another prayer, this one far more personal. “Master Time, give me the wisdom to guide those you’ve put into my care. Master Time offer me the strength to face the darkness that threatens us all. Master Time, help me protect those I love from enemies within and without.”
Cole didn’t sweat; no matter how hot or exhausted he was, his tattered skin wouldn’t even become moist. According to Isabelle, his improved cardiovascular system and fine-tuned metabolism made such a messy system of thermal regulation unnecessary. Normally, the Homunculus Knight was inclined to agree with his missing creator’s wisdom, as it took jungle-like humidity or desert heat to make him uncomfortable, but now, standing before a roaring forge, watching a trio of dwarven smiths hard at work, Cole had his doubts.
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Trying to ignore the stifling air stinging his eyes, the Paladin stood silently, waiting for the finishing touches to be placed upon his newly repaired suit of armor. After the first night of battle, Azyge’s master smith had taken one look at Emma of Stonebone’s brutalized work and demanded it be handed over to him for either restoration or replacement. As he refused to allow Cole to use such degraded equipment, claiming he was honor-bound to make sure the paladin who turned back the tide was clad in proper plate.
At first, Cole had been leery of surrendering his mail, but relented after the master smith’s assistants thoroughly assessed the armor (with him still inside) and found it fixable. Despite all the abuse Cole and his enemies had heaped upon the armor, Emma’s modular design worked as intended, and the individual laminar plates could be replaced easily. So while the paladin fought day and night against hundreds of ghouls, a team of expert craftsdwarves repaired all that was broken.
Now with a clang and a clatter, the master smith set down his tools and gestured at the panoply arrayed before him. “Our payment for the blood you shed in defense of our hearth and home.”
Picking up the newly polished helmet, running a thumb over the hourglass mark on the brow, Cole nodded. “Thank you.”
Soon, he was fully armored, the already unusually quick process helped by experienced dwarven hands eager to test their work. As the familiar weight settled onto his shoulders, Cole examined himself in the quenching pool. While it was hard to tell in the flickering light of the forge, he thought the armor was a darker hue than before, its blue sheen faded to near black. As he tested the gauntlets, Cole bitterly thought on how appropriate this change was. While the previous night’s talk with Alia and Natalie had helped him considerably, they were but clean bandages and a poultice upon a barely stitched wounds.
“One last thing, paladin, a tradition of ours,” said the master smith, pulling Cole from his morbid reverie.
Before Cole could ask, his eyes settled upon the largest of the master’s assistants, a barrel-bodied dwarf with biceps big as melons. Clutched in the journeydwarf’s calloused hands was a brutal-looking warhammer. Biting down, an annoyed sigh paladin asked. “To test the quality?”
“Aye, I can’t let you wear my handiwork unless its strength is witnessed,” replied the master smith, then adding. “It’s a matter of honor, a crafter of singing steel must always be there for its first song.”
The replacement plates of the armor, much like their predecessors, were examples of arcane metallurgy and enchanted to absorb the power of bone-splintering blows. Thumping his chest plate, Cole asked. “What if the ‘song’ doesn’t play?”
Perhaps that wasn’t the most diplomatic question to ask someone who’d spent many hours on this gift, but Cole’s patience these days was as thin as old calfskin. But instead of being insulted by his terse words, the master smith smiled, tombstone teeth showing from within his white beard.
“If the armor fails to protect you, then I’ll be next to take one of Schmelar’s strikes, and I won’t have the privilege of plate.”
Prove your work is proper or potentially die; yep, that sounded like an old dwarf custom. Nodding, Cole braced himself. “Fine then.”
Schmelar hoisted up the warhammer and, with a great roar, struck Cole right atop his heart. The paladin stumbled back a half-step as his breastplate hummed like a gong. Looking down at the undamaged plate, feeling it buzz against his leather jerkin, Cole asked. “Will that suffice?”
Nodding, the master smith said. “Good to see my formula isn’t dross when compared to the Hakonian method. But yes, the debt between us is settled. May our handiwork serve you well in your efforts.”
After exchanging grips with the smith and his assistants, Cole left the workshop, heading back for the burrow-home he and his allies were staying at. Still wearing the armor, Cole found himself surprisingly glad to have the suit repaired. His long-standing opinion that kit heavier than leather was wasted upon him had been steadily fading after recent events. So it would be good to face Harmas and all its dangers with proper protection.
Upon entering the burrow-home, Cole caught two newly familiar scents: summer fields and wolf musk. Following the smells, he found Deborah sitting at the dining table, a cup of tea in hand, while Grettir lounged nearby, a pipe between his lips. Upon seeing him, the Seraphilim smiled, her perfectly symmetrical teeth flashing like polished pearls. “Ah, Sir Paladin, may I have one of your moments?”
As an answer, Cole sat down across from her before removing his helmet. Looking at the armor’s hourglass motif, Deborah said. “Good to see your physical protection is restored. Now, I’ve been giving some thought to our recent discussions, and wish to share some of my insights.”
“Your advice about ‘consecrating’ a space with an element was very useful. During the battle, I channeled entropy into the gatehouse, collapsing. I’m also working on another application of this technique, using cold instead, but it needs some work still.”
Deborah considered this for a moment before nodding as if Cole’s words settled a debate she’d been having with herself. “That you managed such a feat after our brief discussion and practice is remarkable. It also speaks to what I think might be the underlying problem of your magic.”
Seeing Cole’s frown, Deborah held up two fingers, one on each hand. After kissing the right digit, she muttered a quick incantation that made the finger’s tip glow and flicker like a candle. Then she stared intently at the left digit, and it started to shine, growing with luminescence with every second until it seemed a drop of sunlight. Squinting against the now blinding light, Cole watched as Grettir walked over and casually relit his pipe by brushing it against the Seraphilim’s dimmer finger. Both digits ceased glowing, and Deborah eyed her bodyguard with the type of familiar annoyance Cole expected from anyone faced with a friend's idiosyncrasies.
Returning to his spot, smoke trailing after him, Grettir. “Makes it taste better.”
The living saint, daughter of an angel and favored servant of Sister Sun, rolled her eyes before saying, “My interrupted demonstration was an attempt to showcase the two ways a god’s strength might be called upon. With the right finger, I cast a spell like a priest would, making a construct in the Aether out of faith and focus; a construct I then filled with Sister Sun’s channeled power. Then with my left finger, I called upon the magic infused into my very being, manifesting it in a pure, elemental form as one of my kind, or your mantle might. Both of these practices are potent, but in differing directions. The priestly technique is good for complex and consistent spellwork, while the paladin technique is more suited for simpler but more potent workings. Now, can you tell me which of these methods you’ve been using, Sir Paladin? ”
Cole sensed a trap but not its form. “The second method.”
Deborah offered a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been using both and neither. Your magic is a poor mixing that dilutes and disrupts itself. I’ve seen you attempt to cast spells like a priest, but instead of drawing on the near-infinite wellspring of divinity, you’ve spent your own soul’s power. In doing this, you’ve negated many of the priestly techniques' strengths and exaggerate the paladin method’s weaknesses. On other occasions, Sir Paladin, you’ve used your mantle almost correctly, cloaking yourself in an element or concept, but the power used to fuel these workings is undifferentiated, and often working at cross purposes.”
Ever since meeting Natalie, Cole had been steadily embracing his mantle, growing as a paladin and learning to use what Master Time gifted him. So now to hear all his efforts were for naught stung badly.
Clearly seeing something in his expression, the Seraphilim added. “But, your feat at the gatehouse tells me fixing this won’t be too difficult.”
Holding out her left hand, Deborah conjured fire upon her palm. Orange and red flames swirled in a crude sphere, giving off strange golden sparks and a smell of citrus. Individual tongues of fire formed into vague dancing female figures, and instead of crackling, the flames laughed softly.
“This, in my hand, is what happens when I try to summon fire in a way similar to how you use your magic. While I succeeded, I’ve also manifested a lot more than simple fire. Many of my goddess’s other aspects are present in this flame, and while they have uses, their presence here is both an impurity and unnecessary expenditure.
The fire changed, losing the dancing silhouettes and soft laughter. “By not manifesting holy femininity, I can reduce the drain upon my soul, letting the fire burn longer or grow hotter. By itself, this efficiency is already valuable, but for someone serving Master Time, it’s even more important. As many of the Tenth God’s aspects are in opposition to each other. For example, a spell of preservation would lose much of its tainted by entropy.”
Cole silently went over the myriad ways he’d learned to use his power and saw the truth in Deborah’s words. His magic was messy and often mercurial, with there being little consistency between castings. Until now, he’d just assumed this was because of his poor magical aptitude and long-standing reluctance to use Master Time’s gifts. Upon realizing how much he might have been hampering himself, Cole’s gut filled with lead. So many failures and so much pain might have been avoided if he’d properly learned how to be a paladin.
Voice suddenly very dry, the Homunculus asked. “I take it your lessons on channeling a specific element into a space were in part to fix my problem?”
“Yes, and I’m pleased to say the results have been encouraging. You managed to call upon entropy with relative ease and efficiency, which is a good sign. See, the divine power invested in us is fundamentally different then most other magical sources, and requires a unique approach, one I think you’ve brushed against on multiple occasions. While we can use our magic to power a spell, this isn’t a good use of energy; for a paladin or seraphilim, it's better to summon an element and manipulate it manually. Doing this requires an understanding of the element on a spiritual and mental level. For example, I know sunlight, so creating it, and only it, is second-nature. I’d imagine you have a similar relationship with entropy and a few other concepts, which form the bedrock of your magic.”
Once again, the fire in Deborah’s hand changed. The golden sparks flowed away from the flames, settling into her other hand where they conglomerated into a shining sphere not unlike the mote of light she’d summoned upon her finger. The Seraphilim held normal fire in one hand and a miniature sun in the other.
“I don’t think you’ll struggle with this, Sir Paladin. If anything, you seem to have been slowly edging towards this understanding naturally, and my offered insights will just speed up that process. Still, I want to go over a few basics so you don’t commit common errors.”
Snuffing out the tiny sun, she focused on the flame, and before Cole’s eyes, it slowly split into something new. A spot in the air above her fingers shimmered with heat, while a collection of bright orange and red motes circled about.
“Conjuring a single pure element is important, but one must be careful not to overcorrect. Here, I’ve taken fire and divided it into warmth and light. This is possible and has some uses, but most of the time, breaking an element down this far isn’t good. With every step you take away from the element’s form you understand, the more focus is required to manipulate it.”
The heat haze and bright embers merged back into a flame. But now a gilded nimbus clung to the edges of each tongue, and they moved in slow, exaggerated arcs that made Cole think of a solar eruption. That last thought had to make him pause, he’d never heard of ‘solar eruptions’ but he still knew about them, another strange piece of information Isabelle thought he might need.
“Elemental purity helps with efficiency and control, but you can’t discount potential synergy between combined elements. I’m now conjuring both sunlight and fire, creating a more potent, if expensive, working. For you, I imagine cold and preservation might have a similar relationship, as would ironically cold and entropy. Consider these connections and experiment when possible.”
Cole stared at his own hands, frown growing deeper. All this time, he’d been flooding himself with undifferentiated power, crudely shifting the ratios of elements to produce different effects, instead of manifesting any single one properly. Humbled and frustrated by this revelation, he focused on his own fingers, ready to put Deborah’s advice into action.
Shutting his eyes the Paladin thought of what it was like to be freeze; his mind turning to long trips upon winter roads, where wind stripped away any warmth and fingers of ice found any gap in his clothes. Next, he focused on the soothing chill of an icepack against bruised flesh, how it dulled pain and calmed inflammation. After that came the shock of cold water against sensitive skin, and the alertness it forced into even the most insensate minds.
A pleased noise came from Deborah and Cole opened his eyes, finding streams of icy mist wafting off his hands. But more than that, his skin shone slightly, a silver-blue glow that caught on the frozen air, making it shimmer. Strangely their wasn’t any discomfort aside from a slight numbness.
The Seraphilim slid her half-filled teacup across the table towards him while saying. “The light is to be expected; manifesting holy power without any illumination is difficult. Oh, and this cold won’t harm you as long as you stay focused.”
Realizing what she wanted, Cole dipped a finger into the cup, freezing the tea with a hissing crackle. Staring at the mix of ice and boiled leaves, he asked. “Why doesn’t it harm me?”
“This magic comes from your very soul, and as long as you concentrate on the conjured cold, it is connected to you metaphysically; this provides a buffer of sorts between you and the elements' effects. A magi could probably tell you more.”
Letting out a breath and releasing the magic, Cole felt that buffer fade. Icy air nipped at his fingers for a few second,s but no longer. “Thank you, this has been enlightening.”
Deborah’s smile shone like a summer morning. “Of course! You just needed a nudge in the right direction, and I was happy to oblige.”
Getting up from the table, Cole turned to go. “Leaving tomorrow won’t be easy, but what you’ve taught me will help.”
Once he was back in the room shared with Natalie, the Paladin began to remove his armor, gently placing the polished plates into their storage chest. As the last piece settled into place, Cole ran a finger along the carved wood, tracing the images his lover had made. Despite himself, a slight smile spread across his face, and he dared to reminisce.
The washroom door opened then with a creak and Cole looked up to find Natalie staring at him. She was nearly nude, clad only in a damp towel that left little to the imagination. An awkward pause hung in the air until Cole asked. “Did you enjoy your bath?”
Eyeing him intently, expression unreadable, Natalie replied. “Yes, I was almost done when I realized I’d forgotten something.”
Her lie was blatant, and its subtext only marginally less. She’d heard him enter the room and came out undressed, wanting to test the waters. They’d not had sex for weeks now, hard travel and harder circumstances preventing any serious intimacy. Tomorrow they’d be back on the road, facing all kinds of dangers, so tonight would be their only chance for Pantheon knows how long. Normally, both of them would have leapt at this opportunity, but the Alukah’s spectre hung overhead.
By coming out of the bath, almost naked, Natalie was threading a fine needle. If Cole wasn’t willing, he’d let her get back to her bath with whatever item she’d ‘forgotten.’ But if he was…
“Would you maybe be interested in some company?”
Natalie’s neutral expression bloomed into a pleased smile. “That sounds nice.”
Letting her towel slip to the floor, she took Cole’s hand and led him towards the bath.
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