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... ouched behind a fallen tree, Whisperfang resting across his knees. The dying fire from the goblin camp flickered weakly behind him, its smoke curling toward the canopy. The scent of blood still lingered in the air, sharp and metallic.
He could hear them now.
The distant shrieks were closer—angry, frantic. Branches cracked in the underbrush. The goblins were coming.
’Seven, maybe eight,’ he guessed, eyes narrowing.
"Closer to ten," Paros corrected, his tone almost ...
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