19

Staggering, Wentworth collapses into the second residence. Apparently, he was overtaken by a blow on his nerves...

— Drink...— the blood witch hands him a bottle.— Drink and you will become strong again!—Wentworth pours the potion into his mouth, preferring not to even think about what it's made of.

— The witch! Have you been treated to blood yet?— the king asks, grimacing from the most terrible taste.

— Don't drink anything before the moon appears! Otherwise it could kill you! One,—a bony finger sticks into his chest.— and your heart will burst in a moment...—

Wentworth went out. He didn't want to continue the conversation with the old woman, she is much nastier than all the potions she prepared.

The heat came up, but it was already like that.

The breeze of the world-conquering winter breathed pleasantly on the red face.

Once crookedly cut hair, Wentfort cuts it with such care and so smoothly, as if trying to surpass all perfection.

To calm himself down a little, the king slowly went
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