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The wounded commander knelt before Garay, the mud of the battlefield still clinging to his armor. Blood—dark, half-dried—marked his cheek like a brand of shame. The tent's flame shivered, and shadows twisted along the walls, warping every face into something tired, older, more haunted.
Garay's glare cut through the man's trembling. His voice came low, deliberate, with the kind of fury that didn't explode—it burned.
"Leon Moonwalker is dead," he said again, quieter now, ever ...
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