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... still. No wind stirred. No birds flew. The land itself seemed to hold its breath, as though afraid of what lay ahead.
Zephyr stood on a ridge, overlooking the Citadel of Rot—once a noble fortress, now twisted by decay. Vines of blackened bone wound around its towers. Pools of corrupted mana bubbled in the trenches. And atop its highest spire, a sigil burned—the mark of Vaelith, Harbinger of Decay.
"We ride before dawn," Zephyr said, eyes fixed on the citadel. "No speeches. No me ...
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