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Summary
“You are not a very good assassin. I expected more from the Argents than a doe-eyed street urchin.”
The blade in the King’s hand wavered in the light. There was a triskele pressed into the hilt. A Hale. A King Hale. King Derek Hale. The Wolf King. Stiles shuddered.
“I’m not. I-” Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he had been this shaken up. He took a half step back, but got tangled up in something on the ground. He flailed as he fell.
