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... ts of Kranel, his steps slow but unrelenting. Blood soaked his tattered robes, each drop marking his path, staining the cobblestones. The scent of iron clung to him like a second skin, yet his face remained an unreadable mask. His crimson eyes, cold as death itself, burned through the dimming light. The pain gnawing at his body was a distant inconvenience, a trivial thing to be endured.

The evening wind brushed against his wounds, but it was of no consequence. His destination was near. T ...

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