The Hybrid King (1)
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             “Andrew, shoot it!” said Michael, craning his head to see into the branches.

             “No need to yell,” said Andrew from his perch, the arrow already back and ready to fly.

             The werewolf crouched down on all fours, preparing to spring at Sir Gregor, the only man brave enough to approach it with broadsword brandished high. Andrew readjusted his aim and loosed the silver-tipped arrow. The werewolf let out a clipped yelp as the arrow pierced its eye and embedded in the soft tissue of its brain. It took one stilted step before crashing to the earth, muzzle first. 


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