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Notna
Notna
Notna
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Notna

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History's most peaceful race created one of its deadliest weapons.

Forged in the Living Flame by a long-extinct alien race, The Gem of Notna is the stuff of legends, on par with Pandora's Box or the Holy Grail. But once archaeologist Dr. Jack Corbett stumbled upon the crystal deep in the jungle, he triggered a whirlwind of events and found himself neck-deep in a centuries-old holy war. The Divine and the Underworld have been locked in a virtual stalemate for the past three hundred years, and the Gem of Notna could be the key to breaking it.

With the gem in his possession, Jack discovers a world of monsters and gods, as well as an entirely different plane of existence that watches over our own. Old grudges resurface, fallen warriors are reborn in the most violent of ways, but at the end of the day, the fate of the world may well rest in Jack's hands.

J.D. Cunegan (BountyBlood Ties) introduces Notna, a supernatural fantasy epic that will leave readers flipping through the pages with every twist and turn. Grand in scale and steeped in the very comic book lore that lured Cunegan to writing in the first place, Notna proves that anyone can save the world – or die trying.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJ.D. Cunegan
Release dateNov 10, 2017
ISBN9781537847894
Notna
Author

J.D. Cunegan

J.D. Cunegan is known for his unique writing style, a mixture of murder mystery and superhero epic that introduces the reader to his comic book-inspired storytelling and fast-paced prose. A 2006 graduate of Old Dominion University, Cunegan has an extensive background in journalism, a lengthy career in media relations, and a lifelong love for writing. Cunegan lives in Hampton, Virginia, and next to books, his big passion in life in auto racing. When not hunched in front of a keyboard or with his nose stuck in a book, Cunegan can probably be found at a race track or watching a race on TV.

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    Book preview

    Notna - J.D. Cunegan

    For Anton.

    1

    In a Possible Not-Too -Distant Future

    On this night, the Underworld doubled as a battlefield—the final battlefield, in fact. Fresh blood pooled everywhere, severed limbs decorating the otherwise drab, lifeless landscape. Flames clawed at the dark sky. The constant roar of fire provided the soundtrack for swords clashing, sparks flying, warriors screaming at the top of their lungs.

    Those cries were cut short whenever a blade lopped off a head or rendered a battle-hardened knight defenseless. One of the Divine's finest warriors looked on in disgust as his hands were severed from his arms, still clutching his sword. But before he had a chance to look up, a leather-skinned demon swiped just under the warrior's chin.

    The blow was clean. The blood didn't spurt until the angel’s head slid off and fell to the ground in a fit of dust, a high-pitched scream echoing in the distance.

    From atop a throne built from the bones of those who had dared to defy him, Seraphus couldn't help but grin. This was what he had spent the last several hundred years working toward: breaking his realm's stalemate with the Divine and finally gaining the upper hand in this never-ending war. Winning meant taking control of the Mortal Realm, along with several others. The thought of such power was intoxicating, unlike anything Seraphus had felt in his millennia of existence.

    Seraphus glanced at the body at his feet, his smile widening. The previous bearer of the Gem of Notna had been formidable, more than Seraphus had anticipated, but in the end, he was just another human. Snapping the man's neck had been satisfying, but not nearly as much as prying the crystal from the Chosen One's body and taking it as his own.

    The gem had hissed when it made contact with Seraphus' body, slicing his flesh with its tendrils. The scars were still healing, dried blood caked on the ruler’s skin. But once it settled into Seraphus’ chest, overwhelmed by his sheer will, talons and tendrils slithered over his pale frame and Seraphus knew he was worthy. The gem was mighty when dealing with mortals, but it was helpless against the closest thing the Underworld had to a god. And now Seraphus had the gem, the Divine was truly without hope.

    But there was one Divine warrior who had not yet given up. Seraphus watched with great interest as Josef cut a swath among his demon hordes. Josef had died in battle several hundred years ago, at the hand of the vampire Demostricus, but in a fit of panic, the Divine had resurrected him to serve as an ally for the Chosen One.

    Though the Chosen One lay dead and broken at Seraphus' feet, Josef continued his rampage. He beheaded one of the countless demons whose names Seraphus forgot with little effort, green blood splattering onto Josef’s brown cheeks, his shoulder-length hair pulled back into a ponytail. An armored demon got the jump on Josef, but a well-placed elbow allowed him to break free. One more sword swipe and another demon head fell to the ground.

    Two more demons approached, one from each side. Josef grit his teeth and pulled a dagger from the small of his back. Now wielding blades in both hands, Josef thrust his arms out to either side. Both weapons plunged into the demons' respective necks. Seraphus couldn't help but cringe at the resulting bloodbath and the gargled screams of his fallen minions.

    Seraphus! Josef called out from the foot of the mountainous throne. He smashed a skull at his feet with the tip of his massive sword. This ends now!

    Rising from his throne, Seraphus kicked the Chosen One’s body aside and curled his hands into fists. Black eyes turned red and began to glow, as did the ruler's fists. He was shirtless, twin scars on his back burning along his shoulder blades. Of all the scars Seraphus had accumulated over the centuries, those were his proudest. Even more so than the scar running along his abdomen, stopping just above his groin. The marks on his back spoke to his resilience, his tenacity. His refusal to let anyone or anything stand in his way.

    The ruler approached the warrior with slow, purposeful steps until they were level with one another. Seraphus couldn't help but chuckle. Look around you, nomad. You are losing! Your numbers are few!

    So I should just quit? Josef twirled the sword, its blade taller than he, over his head. You don't know me very well, heathen.

    I know enough. Seraphus raised his right fist. A black tendril snaked out from the gem embedded in his chest and slashed Josef across the cheek. He felt the gem’s resistance, but his will again won out.

    The warrior answered by slicing the tendril in two. A loud hissing sound filled his ears, causing him to recoil. Seraphus closed the distance, sinews of living black covering him from head to toe as if they were armor.

    Seraphus grabbed Josef by the neck and lifted him into the air with ease. Your Chosen One has fallen. You are outnumbered. And you, valiant as ever, are weak!

    Struggling for breath, Josef grit his teeth and kicked Seraphus in the stomach. The ruler loosened his grip just enough for Josef to break free and swing his blade. Sparks shot from the tendrils as the blade bounced off with no harm done; they had apparently fortified themselves in response to the previous attack.

    Josef tossed his weapon aside before charging Seraphus, tackling him to the ground. They both grunted when Seraphus' back slammed into the dried surface, dust kicking up around them.

    You talk too much, Josef muttered, backhanding Seraphus across the face. Something black spilled from the ruler's nose and mouth.

    More tendrils shot out from the gem, wrapping themselves around Josef's neck and pulling his arms away from Seraphus. The warrior struggled with every ounce of strength he had, but the sinews tightened their grip. The hissing grew louder, tendrils digging into Josef's skin as he found himself hovering several feet in the air.

    The living armor surrounding Josef grew thicker and more voluminous, as if drawn by the blood seeping from the warrior's wounds. The sinews crept onto Josef's face and he bit back a scream. A sharp poke pierced the side of his neck.

    A drop of blood fell at Seraphus' feet.

    The ruler grinned. The glowing around his eyes was so bright that it was nearly blinding. Seraphus opened his fists and raised his hands above his head.

    Enough!

    Seraphus' voice echoed throughout the Underworld. The remaining fighters, human and demon alike, cowered and pressed their hands to their ears. The ground shook with a monstrous rumble, and a few of the Divine's remaining warriors fell when their heads exploded. Lifeless bodies and weapons fell to the ground without so much as a scream.

    Josef gagged as the tendril buried deeper in his neck before emerging from the other side. Blood poured from the wounds, staining Josef's tattered clothes and charred body armor. His eyes briefly widened, and Josef's mouth opened as if to scream. But no sound came out...just the warrior's final breath.

    Josef fell slack, hung upright in the air by nothing more than the crystal's living armor. With a snap of Seraphus' fingers, the tendrils withdrew and Josef's body plunged to the ground in a heap. Five of the angels that had been hovering overhead also fell to their deaths in that moment.

    At last...Seraphus' moment of triumph was nigh.

    AS JOSEF’S LIFELESS body fell to the ground, Hermes found himself terribly overwhelmed. Old age, and hundreds of years’ worth of bodily injuries, left the Wise One with a hobbling gait and a ragged breath. He grabbed the black-haired woman, Cassandra Federov, the Chosen One's partner from the beginning, and pulled her behind one of the lava-encrusted mountain passes in the Underworld. There were bloodstains and burn marks all over the aged rock which, decades after erupting, was still hot to the touch. Still, it provided the cover Hermes and Cassandra needed.

    Not that either of them truly wanted to hide; Cassandra had damn near charged after Seraphus herself following the Chosen One's death. Tears had streamed down her face, her voice nothing more than a howl of rage and despair. Hermes preferred that to now. Cassandra was on her knees with an empty, faraway look in her eyes. She seemed oblivious to the death and mayhem unfolding around her.

    Under normal circumstances, Hermes would have charged as well, side-by-side with the woman who had shown far more bravery than could be expected. But considering how many of the Divine's soldiers were dead or otherwise helpless, Hermes had decided that discretion was their only hope of survival.

    The image of the Chosen One's neck snapping in two was vivid in Hermes' mind, enough to turn his stomach. Closing his eyes, the Wise One raked a shaky hand through his white hair. The scar on his left cheek throbbed, and for the first time since the Primordial—a celestial council dedicated to preserving balance in the universe—had informed him of the prophecy coming to pass, Hermes was at a loss.

    The Primordial had failed. The balance inherent in the universe had shifted, the centuries-old stalemate between the Underworld and the Divine irrevocably broken. Seraphus had his army at the ready, and no matter what the Divine had done, whether it aligned itself with the Chosen One, resurrected its most decorated warriors...nothing was going to stop Seraphus now that he had the gem.

    Casting another glance at Josef's lifeless form, Hermes sank to his knees. He cradled his face in his hands and bit back the sobs threatening to take over; it had been almost two hundred years since Hermes had felt this sort of despair. His impossibly blue eyes, once the picture of clarity, clouded with tears.

    Tears of loss. Tears of mourning. Tears of failure.

    The Chosen One was supposed to be Earth's salvation; instead, he suffered the same fate all mortal men did...albeit in a far more violent and destructive manner. Warriors screamed their last breath, but Hermes could barely hear them. This was truly it. This was the night Hermes would finally meet his end. With any luck, he would pass before having to watch the world around him crumble.

    Josef is dead, Hermes whispered with a shake of his head. A dragon roared overhead, its wings twice the creature's actual size. Were the beast focused on Hermes, he would surely be an easy mark. Instead, the dragon swooped down and scooped a pair of fallen Divine soldiers into his mouth.

    Hermes shuddered at all the blood surrounding him; he had lived with the realities of war for hundreds of years, and the sight of it still bothered him. Perhaps this was why Hermes never actually fought.

    Hermes glanced at Cassandra. Blood trickled from a scratch on her cheek, but she didn't appear to notice. She never even blinked. Her body didn't move, not even a twitch. So many times of late, Cassandra had been the one insistent on soldiering on, fighting the battles that needed to be fought. More than once, Hermes had wondered if the gem had chosen the wrong host.

    Jack Corbett had been a fine Chosen One, no question, but Cassandra had proven every bit as worthy. If not more so.

    Just as obvious was Cassandra's love for Jack. Not even a war for the fate of the Earth had torn them apart. But he had died in front of her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Were the situation not so dire, Hermes would not begrudge Cassandra her moment of stasis. He was tempted to go catatonic himself.

    But there was no time for that.

    Cassandra, Hermes pleaded, gently placing his aging hands on her shoulders.

    There was no response.

    The dragon returned, its roar a blood-curdling shriek that vibrated in Hermes' bones. He cringed and shook his head, making sure the dragon wasn't coming for him before turning his attention back to the woman.

    Cassandra? Are you with me? He shook her. Say something!

    Without warning, Cassandra's eyes turned red and began to glow. She lifted her gaze, chin held up high. Hermes recoiled with a gasp, stumbling back and watching in awe as the woman got to her feet and began to float. She went from being inches off the ground to several feet, to the point where Hermes had to crane his neck to look up at her.

    The energy surrounding Cassandra's eyes enveloped her entire body. Her hands curled into fists. Hermes opened his mouth, but there were no words.

    Instead, Cassandra looked down at him.

    We are here, O Wise One. There was an echo to Cassandra's voice, as if she were no longer the only one occupying her mind. The Bearer has fallen. The Nomad has fallen. The Primordial was wrong not to interfere.

    Hermes didn't disagree, though he figured this wasn't the best time for an I told you so.

    Returning to the ground, Cassandra grabbed one of Hermes' hands and gave it a squeeze. Their eyes met. Consider this our apology.

    Cassandra launched into the sky, as if flying were something she had done for years. A shield of red energy surrounded her as she darted for Seraphus, who sat on his throne with Josef's severed head in his lap.

    Seraphus! she called out.

    Hermes couldn't help the self-satisfied smile that crept onto his face as Seraphus jumped to his feet. Josef's head careened down the staircase and back to the ground.

    The Primordial has always acted in indirect ways, Cassandra said, grabbing Seraphus by the throat and squeezing until black blood oozed from under her fingertips. She lifted Seraphus into the air, almost reaching the same height as the dragon. But even we were helpless to stop this.

    Not so much helpless as stubborn, in Hermes’ experience.

    Cassandra released her grip, and Seraphus plummeted several hundred feet. He landed with a stomach-churning thud, several bones snapping in the process. Seraphus was barely able to get to his knees without howling in pain. His nose was broken, a fountain of black spewing from his nostrils and down his face. The gem, again trying to exert its will, did nothing to heal his injuries. He gritted his teeth and snarled as Cassandra landed behind him, grabbed a tuft of his hair, and smashed him face-first into the ground.

    You will not win, O Terrible One. We will not allow it.

    A tendril shot out from the gem embedded in Seraphus' chest, impaling Cassandra in the stomach. She doubled over with a grunt, her free hand grabbing the strand of sinew. With another grunt, this one close to a scream, she yanked the tendril out and snapped it at a ninety-degree angle.

    The resulting hiss of anger and pain was sudden, before the strand recoiled back to the gem. The red in Cassandra's eyes burned white-hot. She flipped Seraphus onto his back before straddling him and choking him with both hands.

    I will take back what is mine, she said, the echo in her voice now gone, and end this war!

    Reaching into Seraphus' chest, Cassandra grabbed the crystal and tugged on it. The ruler's skin had molded around the gem, and the harder she pulled, the more Seraphus cringed and writhed in pain. Eventually, his skin tore away. Seraphus bit back several screams, but once Cassandra finally pried the Gem of Notna from his chest, her hands and wrists coated in blood, he could no longer hide his agony.

    Seraphus' scream echoed throughout the abyss, catching scores of undead minions off-guard. Several of them dropped their weapons and scampered into the distance.

    Hermes watched in awe. Becoming a vessel for the Primordial had been her idea. Seeing everyone around her so supernaturally inclined left Cassandra wondering if there was anything she could do in this war. Seeing as how she wasn't going to abandon Jack, Hermes had thought it wise to at least consider.

    Hermes had underestimated Cassandra upon meeting her. What she had lacked in physical strength, she more than made up for in cunning, intellect, and heart. In many ways, she had surpassed even the Chosen One. Even now, Hermes had to chuckle at the memory of something Cassandra had said not long after they first met: Why is the Chosen One always a he?

    PRESENT DAY

    Depending on the culture, Dr. Cassandra Federov said, beginning her lecture as she stood at a wooden podium overlooking a handful of graduate students, the Underworld has been known by several other names. Gehinnom, Sheol, Hades, Hell, the Fire. Seemingly every Western culture or religion has had its own version of eternal torment. Some place where the wicked are met with endless suffering.

    As the lecture continued, Cassandra emerged from behind the lectern, tugging on the lapels of her gray blazer and fighting the smile tugging on her lips. Her hair was jet-black, a recent dye job,  cropped close to her skull. It was the perfect hairstyle for dealing with the Texas heat, even though summer wasn’t for another couple of months.

    It exists on its own merits, she continued. A hellscape of eternal fire and bloodshed. This isn’t merely a place for the fiendish; anyone can fall captive to the Underworld's eternal prison. Legend has it that no one has ever escaped with their life or sanity intact. The few who have managed to cross back over are condemned to a life of solitude and mental degradation.

    A handful of students, the best and brightest archaeological minds the university had to offer, short of Cassandra and her colleague-slash-boyfriend, Dr. Jackson Corbett, arched their brows in amusement and skepticism. The other half of the class jotted in their notepads.

    Rumor has it that those who die in the Underworld are, in all honesty, fortunate. Cassandra shook her head and stuffed her hands into her pockets. But even they are dealt futures rife with torment, anguish, and unspeakable pain.

    Lectures like this were her favorite; the ones that challenged everything students thought they knew from their own experiences. Much of what Cassandra said was hearsay; as much as she wanted definitive proof about some aspect of the afterlife, be it paradise or damnation, it was impossible to come by. The dead, after all, couldn’t tell them what the other side was like. Still, piecing together theories from centuries’ worth of legends and religious overtures was its own reward, and sharing that was one of the reasons Cassandra loved being a professor.

    Why she was particularly drawn to this topic, though, remained a mystery. Even as a child, Cassandra was preoccupied with what happened when one died. She wasn’t convinced Heaven and Hell were actually real, and chances were her lectures were nothing more than folklore. But as someone who had spent her life in constant pursuit of the unknown, her professional curiosity always got the better of her.

    But even as the lecture turned into a robust debate between her students, Cassandra couldn’t help but wonder: where had this recent obsession come from?

    2

    Somewhere in the Amazon , Present Day

    Dark storm clouds, nearly pitch black, rumbled in the night sky. Flashes of lightning streaked from one cloud to the next. The trees shielded much of the wildlife from nature's fury, but enough of the torrential rain fell through the leaves to give the foliage and ground the sustenance it needed. Each crack of thunder vibrated down the branches to the roots, causing the ground to shake.

    Standing amid the forest was a temple. Its stone faded and worn, cracks meandering along the foundation. Chunks of rock and rubble piled up near the entrance, which led to nothing but utter blackness. But what the Tomb of Notna lacked in aesthetic quality, it made up for in power and mystique. The temple had an aura about it, and the native wildlife kept its distance.

    But the elderly man approaching was no local.

    Cian was of Greek heritage, his bronze skin wrinkled with age. His left eye was missing and he walked with a noticeable limp, the result of a hip injury in his thirties that never properly healed. Cian hobbled along the rugged ground, his boots so worn that he might as well have been hiking barefoot. His wooden cane dug into the soft ground, mud caked on the end. He ignored the thunder as best he could, but as Cian paused to wipe the sweat and rain from his brow, he couldn't help but notice each rumble was louder than the last.

    Catching his breath, Cian stared at the temple in awe. His life's work stood before him. He had waited half a century for this moment. Nothing—not the wildlife, not old age, not fragile limbs—was going to prevent Cian from seeing this pilgrimage through to the end. He understood what that possibly meant, but as a man who had dedicated his entire adult life to the mystery surrounding the Gem of Notna, he welcomed the thought.

    Striking his cane against the base of the temple, Cian flinched when flames erupted from the tip. The fire illuminated the entrance, but little else. Still, Cian took as confident a step forward as his body would allow; it was almost as if he was being pulled inside. Whereas the Tomb of Notna seemingly kept anything else that approached at bay, Cian felt the energy surrounding him doing the exact opposite.

    Cian was almost immediately engulfed in darkness. The flame only extended several inches in front of him. A full foot, if he was lucky. He heard what he thought were faint whispers in the humid, acrid air, but Cian figured his mind was playing tricks on him due to exhaustion from the lengthy trip and the muggy conditions. Perhaps he should have refilled his canteen down by the river. Cian's throat was dry, and it worsened with each step he took.

    Cian’s study of the legend of Notna dated back to his college days: specifically, his undergraduate years at Aristotle of Thessaloniki in the 1960s. Professors had thought him a fool in those days, telling him he was chasing fairy tales. But the prophecies within the Narazniyan Scrolls had entranced Cian; so much so that his marriage to Marta, his lifelong love, eventually dissolved.

    In 1985, freshly divorced—or free, as Cian put it—he moved to Brazil and took a teaching job at Universidade Candido Mendes. The locals were a little more welcoming of his theories and his obsession, but Cian still didn't feel completely accepted—which was why, upon translating the Narazniyan Scrolls, Cian had kept their true meaning to himself. But that was fine. Genius was rarely recognized in the moment.

    Cian never wanted the gem, or its power, for himself. His only vice was curiosity. He had to know if the Gem of Notna did, in fact, exist before he died—understanding that the discovery itself might be what killed him.

    After all, they did call this place a tomb.

    At this age, Cian welcomed death. Not because his life had been fruitless. Quite the contrary. But with the hair in his beard ghost-white and far more plentiful than whatever was on top of his head, with every step an exercise in pain tolerance, Cian could feel his body starting to give in.

    At this point, the gem was all that kept Cian going.

    The deeper Cian traveled into the bowels of the temple, the louder the whispers became. He tried to ignore them, but they pierced into his psyche. It was to the point where Cian was actively listening for them, hoping to glean some meaning. But they were little more than gibberish to the elderly scholar, and he shook his head as he continued his descent.

    It felt like hours. Cian had to stop to catch his breath, placing the palm of his hand flat against the stone wall to his left. He felt a cockroach flatten under his palm, ignoring the revulsion of bug guts now slathered on his skin.

    He seeks the power. Thinks immortality is his for the taking.

    Cian jumped and nearly lost the grip on his cane. But the flame died out, leaving him surrounded by pitch black. The voices continued to echo in Cian's head, but he could no longer make out what they were saying. Beads of sweat trickled down his temple, and Cian's hands trembled.

    Keeping his free hand pressed against the wall to guide himself, Cian started hobbling down the corridor again. Each step was wobbly, his entire body shuddering with effort and uncertainty. After several steps, sheer exhaustion drove Cian to his knees. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and a flicker of light finally caught his attention.

    It was a bright shade of green, almost emerald. The flickers grew more frequent until the light was constant, spilling from the chamber into the end of the walkway. Cian's heart rate nearly doubled, a surge of adrenaline taking over now that he knew he was near the end of his journey.

    His muscles ached and his legs screamed for relief, but Cian could not stop until he reached the mouth of the chamber. The light was blinding at this point, engulfing the entire room in its bright hue.

    His worthiness has not yet been tested. His presence was not foreseen.

    The voices caught Cian off-guard, but his vision eventually adjusted to the light. In the center of the chamber, he saw the very thing he had spent his life chasing: there, floating several feet atop a stone slab, shaped as four hands with their palms raised skyward, was the Gem of Notna.

    A tiny thing, not even two inches tall. Oblong and impossibly shiny. It hovered above the stone hands and rotated counterclockwise. The light spilling into the chamber originated from the gem, which seemed to throb with intensity. Cian licked his lips, hoping to combat the dryness in his mouth. The light was uncomfortably warm on his skin, but not even that discomfort could keep him away.

    Dios mio, he muttered under his breath.

    This power is not ours to give.

    Cian ignored the voices, taking a step toward the display. His knee buckled, nearly causing Cian to fall face-first to the ground. But he kept his balance, managing two more wobbly steps before the voices returned, louder and more insistent.

    This one cannot keep the balance within the universe.

    As he closed in on the altar, Cian noticed symbols etched into the back of each hand. Having studied every text and scroll related to the Gem of Notna, Cian knew these symbols by heart. He also knew the voices were arguing whether Cian was worthy of the gem's power.

    He wasn't here for that. Even if Cian wanted to wield the Gem of Notna, his frail body and advanced age would never allow it. The power would overwhelm him to the point of death. But Cian had always known this would likely be a one-way trip, and the smile that crept on his face was one of joy, but also peace.

    If Cian was to die tonight, his life was now complete.

    He is not fit.

    Cian studied the symbols once more. Running clockwise, he mouthed what each symbol meant: Strength. Conviction. Honor. Sacrifice. The four tenets of ancient Narazniyan civilization, ranked from least important to most. The Narazniyans, a race not of this planet, had valued personal sacrifice and collective unity above all else—which was appropriate, considering they had created a weapon capable of killing those it deemed unworthy.

    He has come far. Perhaps he is worthy.

    Yes, Cian whispered before he could stop himself.

    Exhaustion, mixed with relief, sent Cian to his hands and knees. He stared at the ceiling in awe, unable to believe he had achieved the fruits of his lifelong labor. Everything he had worked toward for the past fifty years was right in front of him, just out of his physical reach, and the euphoria that came with that was almost enough to override any physical discomfort.

    It had not been in vain. He knew he could never tell anyone what he saw; no one would believe him even if he did survive the journey back home. But all the work, the sleepless nights poring over texts, the long travels in search of like-minded academics, watching his beloved Marta walk out the door with

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