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... and it was nothing like the songs.
His eyes darted everywhere, fueled by a restless curiosity. He watched the legionnaires marching with a rhythmic, heavy tread through the dirt lanes of the camp. Most of them bowed their heads as he passed, recognizing the falcon stitched onto his fine wool cloak and the striking green of his eyes, a trait as famous in Yarzat as the Prince’s own obsidian armor.
The Sword of Yarzat was a cold and sharp tool that tended to silence anyone foolish ...
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