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That the acolyte was already dead hadn't deterred Prakordian - in fact, it made things easier, for a dead man had few defences. Sorcery had forced the lips to open and speak, condemning the tattered lungs to draw breath and the pulped brain to remember. On the stone floor of the temple, the forest of chains sighing above and the torn banners still smouldering, Prakordian had forced out the truth.
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