He wore a regal sash, his clothes were pressed and prim. His shoes were spotless, as was his traveling cloak. He carried himself with pride, with wide shoulders and a long stride. A golden sword was clasped to his side. Chest-proud and tall: the raven-haired Prince.
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Chapter Nine: Actaeon’s Folly
He lay on the grass. His head was pounding, his temples throbbed, the cool of the evening brought him no comfort. “I am troubled,” he said, “and beset by miseries.”
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