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... painting every polished edge and taut canvas of the camp in honey and fire. Around them, the life of an army unfurled in quiet, victorious rhythm: the clatter of dice, the low hum of a hundred songs half-sung.

Prince Alpheo and Lord Xanthios walked at a measured pace along the perimeter of the camp. It wasn’t ceremony. It wasn’t patrol. It was something older than either—two men sharing the aftertaste of vengeance, like old wine on the tongue.

Lord Xanthios’ eyes lingered on the ...

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