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... fingers moving with the practiced precision of someone who had tended to wounds too often to count. Her voice was calm, but a tightness lingered beneath it a restraint masking the quiet frustration of working in low light, under uncertain skies, with blood that still seeped from barely closed flesh. The strip of linen, once a pale cream, was now marbled in red, soaked through from the wound that refused to settle.

"What a waste of time," Gorak muttered from nearby, arms crossed like a st ...

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