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... g!”
“West River Village, ‘Red-faced’ Philpot!”
…
Vashka pulled out small slips of paper with names written on them from the iron pot and handed them to the nearby Panveche.
The old house steward loudly read the text on the slip while registering the names in the ledger.
One by one, names echoed across the town square; the farmers whose names were called had ashen faces while those who didn’t hear their own silently rejoiced at having dodged a bullet.
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