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... the green.

Zephyr had been tracking them for eleven days — thirty-four signatures crawling north through the swamp, slow as sap, their movement pattern the unmistakable rhythm of exhausted civilians: walk for six hours, collapse for eight, walk again. No scouts. No formation. No divine protection. Just bodies moving through territory that could kill them in a dozen ways, surviving on momentum and the stubborn biological refusal to lie down and stop.

He’d watched three signatures ...

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