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He stayed upright, but his legs weren’t steady. Pressure built behind the knees. Not weakness—just impact.
He didn’t ask about Elara. About the one he’d betrayed. Or the woman who had kissed his forehead once and called it courage.
But they were there.
The memory of a hand at his back. The heat of a weapon at his ribs. A voice that had asked him not to die before he was ready.
Each image passed quickly. None stayed long enough to hold.
This really is ...
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