It was eight years ago back home in the demonic desert, would have been twelve years old where my ears could hear the soft music playing from the phonograph, my eyes catching the beam of light streaming into the house from the scorching sun, and my nose could scene the hint of wildflowers in the oasis. I was a simple novice at the time with my mentor and stepfather, Lukas Hathorne, who as far as I can remember had drilled me with knowledge from survival to wisdom.
Most days, I could spend hours reading the books that Lukas had told me to read, but today my mentor walked in to see the side of my head laid flat on one of his books.
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