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... off, his gloved fingers working over the folds of dark fabric in absent, methodical strokes. The air in the tunnel still smelled faintly of scorched stone from his earlier spell, mingled with the sour musk of mold and something older, an ancient dryness, like parchment left too long in a tomb. His boots shifted against loose gravel, small pebbles grinding in echoes that carried down the dark throat of the passage ahead.

The tunnel where the Umbrite had come from loomed like an invitatio ...

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