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Summary
The first time he saw the thing that had come from the prison world, he made himself look long and hard at every shuffling step, every drip of black and every grotesquely bent limb.
There was a boy, barely out of training, named Jackson Overland Frost. Kozmotis had made himself learn about him, talked to those who knew him, learned who he had been.
He makes himself remember all of it, while he forces himself to look at the walking body, dripping black from its mouth and blazing eyes like it isn't large enough to hold all the fearlings inside of it.