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... p> And none of them looked like they were in a hurry. That was what made it worse.

They weren't charging. Weren't sprinting. They just walked.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Like they already owned the place.

Like there was no one left worth rushing for.

Lindarion counted eight of them.

Eight shapes, plated in armor not forged from any metal he recognized. Not elegant or enchanted.

Crude. Dark. Burnt around the edges like they'd clawed their way ...

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