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... on the leather strap of his satchel, his breaths uneven as he trudged past gnarled roots and trees that twisted like they were alive. The strange map his dying father had given him pulsed faintly under his jacket, almost as if it sensed the change in atmosphere.

And then—he heard it.

A cry. Not human.

It was a screech, piercing and ancient, echoing through the branches like a war drum. Donato spun around.

There it was.

A massive bird Midnight-black feather ...

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