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Chapter 112: The Urgent Meeting
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Chapter 114: The Scent of a Manufactured Apocalypse
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... specific, wet-iron brand of Northern frost that seemed to bypass leather and wool entirely, sinking straight into the marrow until your bones felt like glass rods ready to snap. In the center of the clearing, a natural bowl of grey shale and stunted, skeletal pines, a small cluster of the new hearth stones sat nestled in the dirt.
Three were active, pulsing with that rhythmic glow that was supposed to be the camp’s salvation. The rest lay dark, cold as the ground they occupied.
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