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... , the wind nipping at our backs and the sky streaked in the bruised colors of a dying sunset. Bragg, for all his size and bravado, walks sheepish at the front, scratching his head and glancing back at his handiwork like he's afraid someone will notice the seams in the mud. I wonder where he hails from because he does not strike me as a noble.

We're halfway to the shelter when angry voices cut through the twilight. I turn, feeling the old feeling of danger, challenge, trouble on the horiz ...

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