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... autumn grass cushioning their footsteps. Beneath the green, a carpet of dried leaves lay hidden; with every step, a sharp, brittle screech echoed up in the air as they shattered under their boots, like the snapping of dry bone.
Neither man spoke. Pontus had retreated into a defensive stillness, fearing he had finally overstepped the bounds of the Prince’s patience. Alpheo, however, felt a pang of guilt. He had silenced the man with the bluntness of a hammer, and the resulting quiet was ...
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