The Heartbeat Between Life and Death
The forest was blood red, dying with the year. Cold iron in his hands, the hunter trod the well-worn trail, stepping silently around fallen leaves.
The forest was blood red, dying with the year. Cold iron in his hands, the hunter trod the well-worn trail, stepping silently around fallen leaves.
The forest was blood red, dying with the year. Cold iron in his hands, the hunter trod the well-worn trail, stepping silently around fallen leaves.
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